Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? It is the generous spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; And in himself posses his own desire
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