I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! . . . . . . Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin; And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

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

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

Paracelsus At times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages’ way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out — not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again.

Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe, all were for me, in the kiss of one girl.

It's wiser being good than bad; It's safer being meek than fierce: It's fitter being sane than mad.