In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
The quiet sense of something lost
The greater person is one of courtesy.
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.