The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

The thrall in person may be free in soul

He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.

The quiet sense of something lost