Truth takes no account of centuries.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.