I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.

Bible reading is an education in itself.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.