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

Tis Man's to explore up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason.

Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!

Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!

How good is life, the mere living!