No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
Fuss is the froth of business.
She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!