“I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, and bade me creep past.”

“ Life In LoveEscape me?Never---Beloved!While I am I, and you are you,So long as the world contains us both,Me the loving and you the lothWhile the one eludes, must the other pursue.My life is a fault at last, I fear:It seems too much like a fate, indeed!Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.But what if I fail of my purpose here?It is but to keep the nerves at strain,To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,And, baffled, get up and begin again,---So the chace takes up one's life ' that's all.While, look but once from your farthest boundAt me so deep in the dust and dark,No sooner the old hope goes to groundThan a new one, straight to the self-same mark,I shape me---EverRemoved!”

“I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier’s art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.”

“All June, I bound the rose in sheaves.Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves,And strew them where Pauline may pass.She will not turn aside? Alas!Let them lie. Suppose they die?The chance was they might take her eye.How many a month I strove to suitThese stubborn fingers to the lute!To-day I venture all I know.She will not hear my music? So!Break the string -- fold music's wing.Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion. -- Heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may -- I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they.”

“grow old with me. the best is yet to be.the last of life for which the first was made.”

“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!”

“Paracelsus At times I almost dreamI too have spent a life the sages’ way,And tread once more familiar paths. PerchanceI perished in an arrogant self-relianceAges ago; and in that act a prayerFor one more chance went up so earnest, soInstinct with better light let in by death,That life was blotted out — not so completelyBut scattered wrecks enough of it remain,Dim memories, as now, when once more seemsThe goal in sight again.”