Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Sing, riding 's a joy! For me I ride.
They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
A man in armour is his armour's slave.
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.
Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.