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

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.