No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

Everyone says that forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.