And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Charles LambWho first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down . . . . To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . . . Sabbathless Satan!
Charles LambWhen twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.
Charles Lamb