Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe, all were for me, in the kiss of one girl.
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?
Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.