In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.

And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.

It's better to have tried and failed than to live life wondering what would've happened if I had tried