But there are times when patience proves at fault.

But there are times when patience proves at fault.

Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.

Truth is within ourselves.

Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.