Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.