Not the schoolboy heat,/ The blind hysterics of the Celt.

If thou shouldst never see my face again, pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,/ But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

Time driveth onward fast,/ And in a little while our lips are dumb./ Let us alone. What is it that will last?/ All things are taken from us, and become/ Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

The vow that binds too strictly snaps, itself