But there are times when patience proves at fault.
Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.
How good is life, the mere living!
We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.