The deep plough in the lazy undersoil
Down-driving; with a cry earth’s fibres crack,
And a few months, and lo! the golden leas,
And autumn’s crowded shocks and loaded wains.
Let us look back on life; was any change,
Any now blest expansion, but at first
A pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seats
Of moral being? To do anything,
Distinct on any one thing to decide,
To leave the habitual and the old, and quit