On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.
Alfred Lord TennysonThe smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.
Alfred Lord TennysonTheirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
Alfred Lord Tennyson