Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;Thou art fed with perpetual breath, and alive after infinite changes,And fresh from the kisses of death,Of langours rekindled and rallied, Of barren delights and unclean,Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallidAnd poisonous queen.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

The sweetest flowers in all the world- A baby's hands.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.

Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.