Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still.

Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease.

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Ah, why Should life all labor be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; Tomorrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year; Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.