In God's good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

It 's wiser being good than bad; It 's safer being meek than fierce; It 's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That after Last returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched.

Who knows but the world may end tonight

Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.

The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!