All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

All things human change.

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

The old order changeth yielding place to new, And God fulfills himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

The greater man the greater courtesy.