Sprinkled along the waste of years

When you find yourself, as I daresay you sometimes do, overpowered as it were by melancholy, the best way is to go out, and do something kind to somebody or other.

The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask.

The deeds we do, the words we say,— Into still air they seem to fleet, We count them ever past; But they shall last, In the dread judgment they And we shall meet!

As fire is kindled by fire, so is a poet's mind kindled by contact with a brother poet.

The voice that breathed o'er Eden, That earliest wedding day, The primal marriage blessing, It hath not passed away.

And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray.