Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.