What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
A lonely impulse of delight
Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.