How very hard it is to be a Christian!

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.

Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.

All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.

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

Most progress is most failure.