Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

O never star Was lost; here We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven Above us. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendor soon or late Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.

Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.

My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!