Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

We murder to dissect.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.