It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.

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

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.