Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.

Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.