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No longer forward nor behindI look in hope or fearBut, grateful, take the good I findThe best of now and here.
O Time and change! -- with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!
Of all that Orient lands can vaunt, of marvels with our own competing, the strangest is the Haschish plant, and what will follow on its eating.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; who sows a field, or trains a flower, or plants a tree, is more than all.
Here Greek and Roman find themselves alive along these crowded shelves; and Shakespeare treads again his stage, and Chaucer paints anew his age.
In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.
The dreariest spot in all the land to Death they set apart; with scanty grace from Nature's hand, and none from that of Art.
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