He Makes A July's Day

Even Through The Hollow Eyes Of Death I Spy Life Peering.

By That Sin Fell The Angels.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

Things Done Well And With A Care, Exempt Themselves From Fear.