Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

All Life needs for life is possible to will.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

Virtue must shape itself in deed.