Silence, beautiful voice.

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

Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.