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Where waitest thou,

Lady I am to love? Thou comest not!

Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot;

I looked for thee ere now!...

Where art thou, sweet?

I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams!

Oh, gentle promised Angel of my dreams,

Why do we never meet?

Thou art as I,—

Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee;

We cannot live apart; must meeting be

Never before we die ...?

Sir Edwin Arnold (À Ma Future).

Mild is the parting year, and sweet

The odour of the falling spray;

Life passes on more rudely fleet,

And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,

But mourn that never must there fall

Or on my breast or on my tomb

The tear that would have sooth’d it all.

W. S. Landor.

The devil has made the stuff of our life and God makes the hem.

Victor Hugo (By the King’s Command).

I think, I said, I can make it plain that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as taking part in a dialogue between John and Thomas.

Three Johns: The real John—known only to his Maker. John’s ideal John—never the real one, and often very unlike him. Thomas’s ideal John—never the real John, nor John’s John, but often very unlike either.