Lord Alfred Tennyson

He seems to near and yet so far.

God's finger touched him and he slept.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill.

Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?

Howe'er it be it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

How fares it with the happy dead?

And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.

Man's word is God in man.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

Into the jaws of death.