Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

Either sex alone is half itself.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?