Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
The never-ending flight Of future days.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.