How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

The last great Englishman is low.

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.