Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.