The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.
The enormous faith of many made for one.
Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.