It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
Alfred Lord TennysonBut the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
Alfred Lord TennysonShe 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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson