Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.

Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.

beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade