The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

No man ever got very high by pulling other people down. The intelligent merchant does not knock his competitors. The sensible worker does not work those who work with him. Don't knock your friends. Don't knock your enemies. Don't knock yourself.

The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.