Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

There's no glory like those who save their country.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

My mind is clouded with a doubt.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.