Rage is essentially vulgar.
When a man mistakes his thoughts for persons and things, he is mad.
There is small chance of truth at the goal, where there is not childlike humility at the starting-post.
A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive.
A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Boys and girls, And women, that would groan to see a child Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, The best amusement for our morning meal.