Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.
Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.
All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.