Too much wit makes the world rotten.

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

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

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.