Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.