Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

He lives most life whoever breathes most air.

When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .

If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?