Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

Man's word is God in man.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.

Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.

Here at the quiet limit of the world.