That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Courtesy wins woman all as well. As valor may, but he that closes both is perfect.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.