For words of rapture groping, they"Never such love," swore "ever before was!"

The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.

I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.

Hardly one soldier in a hundred was inspired by religious feeling of even the crudest kind. It would have been difficult to remain religious in the trenches even if one had survived the irreligion of the training battalion at home.

Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.

You mean that people who continue virtuous in an old-fashioned way must inevitably suffer in times like these?