All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

God's finger touched him, and he slept.

For love reflects the thing beloved.