Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.

My wind is turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright, With foggy gloom is clouded o'er My gay green leaves are yellow-black, Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

Out of sight is out of mind.

Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive officiously to keep alive.