So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not - Alfred Tennyson

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before,

But vaster.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them — Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them.

The Sea-fairies

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw,
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea.