“O SWEET everlasting Voices, be still;Go to the guards of the heavenly foldAnd bid them wander obeying your will,Flame under flame, till Time be no more;Have you not heard that our hearts are old,That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?O sweet everlasting Voices, be still. ”

“Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;Remember the wisdom out of the old days:Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,And the winds that blow through the starry ways,Let the starry winds and the flame and the floodCover over and hide, for he has no partWith the lonely, majestical multitude.”

“First don: O cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? Second don: State the alternative preferred, With reasons for your choice.”

“Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.BENEDICK O, stay but till then!BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken; fare you well now...(Much Ado About Nothing)”

“Hard TimesMusic is silenced, the dark descending slowlyHas stripped unending skies of all companions.Weariness grips your limbs and within the locked horizonsDumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears.Still, O bird, O sightless bird,Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.It's not melodious woodlands but the leaps and fallsOf an ocean's drowsy booming,Not a grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam.Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves?Where the nest and the branch's hold?Still, O bird, my sightless bird,Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.Stretching in front of you the night's immensityHides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun;Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimmingAcross the shoreless dark a crescent moonHas thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon.-But O my bird, O sightless bird,Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.From upper skies the stars with pointing fingersIntently watch your course and death's impatienceLashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves;And sad entreaties line the farthest shoreWith hands outstretched and crooning 'Come, O come!'Still, O bird, O sightless bird,Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes;All that is lost: your words and lamentation;No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers.For wings are all you have, and the sky's broadening countryard,And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction.Dear bird, my sightless bird,Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings!”

“High PastureCome up--come up: in the dim vale belowThe autumn mist muffles the fading trees,But on this keen hill-pasture, though the breezeHas stretched the thwart boughs bare to meet the snow,Night is not, autumn is not--but the flowOf vast, ethereal and irradiate seas,Poured from the far world's flaming boundariesIn waxing tides of unimagined glow.And to that height illumined of the mindhe calls us still by the familiar way,Leaving the sodden tracks of life behind,Befogged in failure, chilled with love's decay--Showing us, as the night-mists upward wind,How on the heights is day and still more day.”