One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.

What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Graved inside of it, "Italy".

Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before Love, - Only sleep.

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

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

Pippa's Song The year's at the spring The day's at the morn Morning's at seven, The Hill side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven- All's right with the world