A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

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

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.