If you get simple beauty and naught else, / You get about the best thing God invents.

Only I discern / Infinite passion, and the pain / Of finite hearts that yearn.

A man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?

He who hears music, feels his solitude peopled at once.

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all / Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

Never the time and the place / And the loved one altogether.

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous.

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, / And bade me creep past

Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.Â

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.