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

All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.

When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.