Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylรฆ!
A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
Fills The air around with beauty.
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.