Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.

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

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.

The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

Nothing that is can pause or stay.