The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.
Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.
Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.
I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
How fares it with the happy dead?
We needs must love the highest when we see it.
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