The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!

Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.

Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!

And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!

When is man strong until he feels alone?

grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.