The tough ground hurts my feet as I walk along.I'm tired and there is no stream in which I can quench my thirst.There is not a tree in sight that can provide me with shade.When will my journey end?
I'm a far away friend.I try to be good.My love to you I send.I try harder than I should.But at least I try.At least I care.My dear, don't cry.I'll be there,I'll be there.
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
THERE once the wallsOf the ruined cottage stood.The periwinkle crawlsWith flowers in its hair into the wood.In flowerless hoursNever will the bank fail,With everlasting flowersOn fragments of blue plates, to tell the tale.
Growth of Man -- like Growth of Nature --Gravitates within --Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it --Bit it stir -- alone --Each -- its difficult IdealMust achieve -- Itself --Through the solitary prowessOf a Silent Life --Effort -- is the sole condition --Patience of Itself --Patience of opposing forces --And intact Belief --Looking on -- is the DepartmentOf its Audience --But Transaction -- is assistedBy no Countenance --