Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever?

Since we parted yester eve, I do love thee, love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,- One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer,-thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before.

We gain justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain.

They only fall, that strive to move, Or lose, that care to keep.

We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. . . . He may live without books,-what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope,-what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love,-what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?

We are but as the instrument of Heaven.

Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.