Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?

We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.

Have you ever rightly considered what the mere ability to read means? That it is the key which admits us to the whole world of thought and fancy and imagination? to the company of saint and sage, of the wisest and the wittiest at their wisest and wittiest moment? That it enables us to see with the keenest eyes, hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time? More than that, it annihilates time and space for us.

May is a pious fraud of the almanac.

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.

But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet. Lessen like sound of friends departing feet; And death is beautiful as feet of friend. Coming with welcome at our journey's end.

Poetry is something to make us wiser and better, by continually revealing those types of beauty and truth, which God has set in all men's souls.