How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.

The red Sahara in an angry glow, / With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed / Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow.

Yet there are some resting-places, / Life's untroubled interludes; / Times when neither past nor future / On the soul's deep calm intrudes.

A healthful hunger for a great idea is the beauty and blessedness of life.

Children bring their own love with them when they come.

Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.

I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.