grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?

Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.