Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops.
Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's Is ? not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be ? but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means.
Twere too absurd to slight For the hereafter the todays delight!
My business is not to remake myself, but to make the absolute best of what God made.