Be near me when my light is low,/ When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick/ And tingle; and the heart is sick,/ And all the wheels of Being slow.
My strength has the strength of ten because my heart is pure.
Tears, idle tears,/I know not what they mean,/ Tears from the depth of some divine despair,/ Rise in the heart and gather in the eyes,/ In looking on the happy autumn fields,/ And thinking of the days that are no more.
To do him any wrong was to beget a kindness from him, for his heart was rich - of such fine mould that if you sowed therein the seed of hate, it blossomed charity.
...For the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies.