Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest; Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: Go by, go by.

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

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

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

Oh good gray head which all men knew!