What Shelter To Grow Ripe Is Ours?

Joy Comes And Goes, Hope Ebbs And Flows Like The Wave; Change Doth Unknit The Tranquil Strength Of Men. Love Tends Life A Little Grace, A Few Sad Smiles; And Then, Both Are Laid In One Cold Place, In The Grave.

Not Deep The Poet Sees, But Wide.

Time May Restore Us In His Course Goethe's Sage Mind And Byron's Force: But Where Will Europe's Latter Hour Again Find Wordsworth's Healing Power?

What Is It To Grow Old? Is It To Lose The Glory Of The Form, The Lustre Of The Eye? Is It For Beauty To Forego Her Wreath? Yes; But Not This Alone.

He Spoke, And Loos'd Our Heart In Tears. He Laid Us As We Lay At Birth On The Cool Flowery Lap Of Earth.