That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

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.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.