Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

We needs must love the highest when we see it.