When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.