Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age — why not? I have neither hope nor trust; May make my heart as a millstone, set … - Alfred Tennyson

May make my heart as a milestone, set my face as a flint, cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking 'this will please him best,'
She takes a riband or a rose;

For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;

And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,
Or kill'd in falling from his horse,

O what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me no second friend.

This madness has come on us for our sins.

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day, what is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay