Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.

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.

Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

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.