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

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?