Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanc'd true friends, and beat down baffling foes?

So, loath to suffer mute. We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear.

The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.

Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.

Here's to the day when it is May And care as light as a feather, When your little shoes and my big boots Go tramping over the heather.

I cannot but think that he who finds a certain proportion of pain and evil inseparably woven up in the life of the very worms, will bear his own share with mor…

We shall lodge at the sign of the Grave, you say; Well, the road is a long one we trudge, my friend, So why should we grieve at the break of the day? Let us si…