Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die.

O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would?

But what am I? An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.

He that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned.

Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee, Who lets his rosy fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes!

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

He that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in the outer darkness.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, So hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature and of noble mind.

Men at most differ as heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as heaven and hell.