Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

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

He is all fault who has no fault at all.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

A day may sink or save a realm.