A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.

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

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

Oh good gray head which all men knew!

Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.