That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.