The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.
The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.
The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
And every dew-drop paints a bow.
By blood a king, in heart a clown.
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.