If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.

Thought is the soul of act.

Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! . . . . . . Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin; And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.