Small service is true service, while it lasts.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.