The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.