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!

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

I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

Desire joy and thank God for it. Renounce it, if need be, for other's sake. That's joy beyond joy.

O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.