In tragic life, God wot

Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?

See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries?

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.

Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.