Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.
Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?
Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?
Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build
For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.
O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.