Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

The woman is so hard Upon the woman.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.