More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.

You throw the sand against the wind and the wind blows it back again.

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruit and flowers.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.

Great things are done when men and mountains meet.

If you would help another man, you must do so in minute particulars.