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.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.

The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott

That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

God made thee good as thou art beautiful.

Faith is believing what we cannot prove.