Refine it ne'er so much. For teh soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking. Ah no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose. Women and elephants never forget.
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back. And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken. To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious strife Is worth an age without a name.