Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

I Saw Myself The Lambent Easy Light Gild The Brown Horror, And Dispel The Night.

Honor Is But An Empty Bubble.

New Vows To Plight, And Plighted Vows To Break.