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

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

We are all a part of every person we have ever met.

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

The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.