How fares it with the happy dead?

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

Courtesy wins woman all as well. As valor may, but he that closes both is perfect.

That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

What rights are those that dare not resist for them?

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