They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

Death: the grand perhaps.

Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?

Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.

The trouble that most of us find with the modern matched sets of clubs is that they don't really seem to know any more about the game than the old ones did.