Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.