Strike When Thou Wilt, The Hour Of

How Well I Know What I Mean To Do When The Long Dark Autumn Evenings Come, And Where, My Soul, Is Thy Pleasant Hue? With The Music Of All Thy Voices, Dumb In Life’s November Too! I Shall Be Found By The Fire, Suppose, O’er A Great Wise Book As Beseemeth Age, While The Shutters Flap As The Cross-wind Blows, And I Turn The Page, And I Turn The Page, Not Verse Now, Only Prose!

Grow Old With Me. The Best Is Yet To Be. The Last Of Life For Which The First Was Made.

The Sad Rhyme Of The Men Who Proudly Clung To Their First Fault, And Withered In Their Pride.

Brightest Truth, Purest Trust In The Universe, All Were For Me, In The Kiss Of One Girl.

Needs There Groan A World In Anguish Just To Teach Us Sympathy?