Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.