Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.

Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.

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

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.