“And each day brings it's pretty dust,Our soon-choked souls to fllAnd we forget because we must,And not because we will.”

“And we forget because we must and not because we will.”

“And we forget because we must”

“Only--but this is rare--When a beloved hand is laid in ours,When, jaded with the rush and glareOf the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,When our world-deafen'd earIs by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.A man becomes aware of his life's flow,And hears its winding murmur; and he seesThe meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.”

“We are here on earth to do good to others. What the others are here for, I do not know.”

“And we are here as on a darkling plainSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,Where ignorant armies clash by night.”

“No, thou art come too late, Empedocles!And the world hath the day, and must break thee,Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live,Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine;And being lonely thou art miserable,For something has impair'd they spirit's strength,And dried its self-sufficing font of joy.”