And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.