Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.

All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.