She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Follow the deer? Follow the Christ the King. Live pure, speak true,right wrong, Follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.