Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

The greater man the greater courtesy.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.