Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.

The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.