Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.