You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt.
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.
Death: the grand perhaps.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth