Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.

Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.