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

God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.