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

A beam in darkness: let it grow.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.

Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?