Love will conquer at the last.
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.