Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

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.

It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.

Love will conquer at the last.

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

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

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