God is the perfect poet.
The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!
What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
Talent should minister to genius.
If you can sit at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done And counting find oneself-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him that heard. One glance most kind, Which fell like sunshine where he went, Then you may count that day well spent.
Night conceals a world but reveals a universe.