Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Faith is believing what we cannot prove.