Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead. Thy very stones prate of my whereabout. That summons thee to heaven or to hell. It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good-night. The attempt and not the deed, Confounds us.
T is the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil.
The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. A little water clears us of this deed. The labour we delight in physics pain. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.