'Tis now, when I am most upon the move, I feel for what I verily find-again

The face, again the eyes, again, through all, The heart and its immeasurable love

Of my one friend, my only, all my own, Who put his breast between the spears and

me.

Ever with Caponsacchi!

November Twelfth.

O lover of my life, O soldier-saint,
No work begun shall ever pause for death!
Love will be helpful to me more and more
I' the coming course, the new path I must
tread,

My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong

for that.

Life-blood-ere sleep come travail, life ere

death!

This life-stream on my soul, direct, oblique, But always streaming. Hindrances? They pique.

November Fourteenth.

Men's road

Is one, men's times of travel many: thwart No enterprising soul's precocious start Before the general march! If slow or fast, All struggle up to the same point at last.

November Fifteenth.

So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurts. The teller, whose worst crime gets somehow

grace, avowed.

November Sixteenth.

'Twas not for every Gawain to gaze upon

the Grail!

November Seventeenth.

Exactly thus men stand to God:

I with my courier, God with me. Just so
I have His bidding to perform; but mind
And body, all of me, though made and

meant

For that sole service, must consult, contest
With my own self and nobody beside,
How to effect the same: God helps not
else.

November Eighteenth.

Such was my rule of life: I worked my best, Subject to ultimate judgment, God's, not

man's.

November Nineteenth.

I search but cannot see

What purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it tries

Conclusions with, unless the fruit of victories Stay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed

its own

Forever, by some mode whereby shall be made known

The gain of every life. Death reads the title clear

What each soul for itself conquered from out things here.

November Twentieth.

Ay, of all the artists living, loving,
None but would forego his proper dowry,-

Does he paint? he fain would write a poem— Does he write? he fain would paint a picture.

November Twenty-first.

But deep within my heart of hearts there hid

Ever the confidence, amends for all,

That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did.

November Twenty-second.

Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for!

the spirit be thine!

By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy

More, indeed, than at first when, uncon

scious, the life of a boy.