Some Poems Are Like The Centaurs--a Mingling

The Life Of A Man Consists Not In Seeing Visions And In Dreaming Dreams, But In Active Charity And In Willing Service.

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection, Affection Never Was Wasted; If It Enrich Not The Heart Of Another, Its Waters, Returning Back To Their Springs, Like The Rain, Shall Fill Them Full Of Refreshment; That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

Ne Speaketh Not; And Yet There Lies A Conversation In His Eyes.

Enjoy The Spring Of Love And Youth, To Some Good Angel Leave The Rest; For Time Will Teach Thee Soon The Truth, There Are No Birds In Last Year's Nest!