Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.

I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.

Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.