I know that Europe’s wonderful, yet something seems to lack

Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and there am I.

What we do belongs to what we are; and what we are is what becomes of us.

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,—

And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.

The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done; The Master has paid him his wages, the goal of his journey is won; He rests, but he never is idle; a thousand years pass like a day, In the glad surprise of Paradise where work is …