Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.

In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.

Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.