The words ‘far, far away’ had always a strange charm.
The year is dying in the night.
The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.
The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed...
I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
Woman is the lesser man.
Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Thoroughly to believe in one’s own self, so one’s self were thorough, were to do great things.
Sweet is true love, though given in vain.
Man is man, and master of his fate.
The noonday quiet holds the hill.
Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.
Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.
Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.