There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

The highest spiritual quality, the noblest property of mind a man can have, is this of loyalty.

For words divide and rend But silence is most noble till the end.

Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Change lays not her hand upon truth.