Goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.
From his lips/Not words alone pleased her.
All hell broke loose.
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Neither prosperity nor empire nor heaven can be worth winning at the price of a virulent temper, bloody hands, an anguished spirit, and a vain hatred of the rest of the world.