Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

O last regret, regret can die!

Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.

The last great Englishman is low.