I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.