Not to the swift, the race

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

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

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,—

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.

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

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 …