Gentle to others, to himself severe.
Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.