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

The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.