Who has smelled the woodsmoke at twilight, who has seen the campfire burning, who is quick to read the noises of the night?

We have done with Hope and Honour. we are lost to Love and Truth, We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung; And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth. God help us, for we knew the worst too young!

Who has smelled the woodsmoke at twilight, who has seen the campfire burning, who is quick to read the noises of the night?

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leaves 'It's pretty, but is it Art?'

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

Yet there be certain times in a young man’s life, when, through great sorrow or sin, all the boy in him is burnt and seared away so that he passes at one step to the more sorrowful state of manhood

If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim.