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

Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.

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

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

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

In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.