Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

Friendship's the wine of life.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.