Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before Love, - Only sleep.

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

Sing, riding 's a joy! For me I ride.

Look not down but up!

They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.

He guides me and the bird. In His good time!