And what should they know of England who only England know?

There rise her timeless capitals of empires daily born, whose plinths are laid at midnight and whose streets are packed at morn; and here come tired youths and maids that feign to love or sin in tones like rusty razor blades to tunes like smitten tin.

Brother, thy tail hangs down behind.

Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.

If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! I know whose love would follow me still Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

When man has come to the Turnstiles of Night, all the creeds in the world seem to him wonderfully alike and colorless.

You sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping.