The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
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!
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
The woman is so hard Upon the woman.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.