How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
