Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two.

Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?

Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.

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

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

Time'swheelsrunsbackor stops: Potterand clayendure.