The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

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

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.