I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.