A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient, They are but parts, any thing is but a part.
O unspeakable passionate love.
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It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again, Nor the old.
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, to save a life book And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!
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