He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

Sweet is true love, though given in vain.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

The thrall in person may be free in soul