For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
We needs must love the highest when we see it.
A louse in the locks of literature.