“In Memory of Major Robert Gregory,” first stanza
Now that we’re almost settled in our house
I’ll name the friends that cannot sup with us
Beside a fire of turf in th’ ancient tower,
And having talked to some late hour
Climb up the narrow winding stair to bed;
Discoverers of forgotten truth
Or mere companions of my youth,
All, all are in my thoughts to-night being dead.
“The Wild Swans at Coole,” fifth stanza
But now they drift on the still water,
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away.
“A Prayer for My Daughter,” first stanza
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory’s wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
Abraham Cowley, “On the Death of Mr. William Hervey,” third stanza
My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!
Life and this world will henceforth tedious be:
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! My treasure’s gone; why do I stay?