I who still pray at morning and at eve Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed, Thrice stirred below conscious self Have felt that perfect disenthrallment which is God.

Take winter as you find him, and he turns out to be a thoroughly honest fellow; with no nonsense in him, which is a great comfort in the long-run.

The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries my spirit walks in thought.

That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.

Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

A weed is no more than a flower in disguise.