Sweet is true love, though given in vain.

In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

Nature, red in tooth and claw.

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.