Two evils, monstrous either one apart, Possessed me, and were long and loath at going: A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart, And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree. Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills, The delight of her husbands, her aunts, an infant of three, And …

And a wandering beauty is a blade out of its scabbard. You know how dangerous, gentlemen of threescore? May you know it yet ten more.

And weeping fast as she had breath Janet implored us, 'Wake her from her sleep!' And would not be instructed in how deep Was the forgetful kingdom of death.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

As I go musing through this mournful land Soothed by the pine-tree's solemn harmony, Thy well-loved image comes and walks by me. I seem to hold thee by the gen…

From perfect grief there need not be Wisdom or even memory; One thing then learned remains to me - The woodspurge has a cup of three.