At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate, still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal, Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light.

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away; I will go down to the chapel and pray.

I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.

The architect Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, And with him toiled his children, and their lives Were builded, with his own, into the walls, As offerings unto God.

Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of morn is shed, Like a celestial benison! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land.

I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.