There’s no glory like his who saves his country.
There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.
The shell must break before the bird can fly.
The quiet sense of something lost.
The many fail: the one succeeds.
The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.
The city is built to music, therefore never built at all, and therefore built for ever.
Sweet is true love tho’ given in vain, in vain; and sweet is death who puts an end to pain.
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
So I find every pleasant spot in which we two were wont to meet, the field, the chamber, and the street, for all is dark where thou art not.
