And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

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

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

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.

That which we are, we are.

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

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.