Lord Alfred Tennyson

And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.

I am a part of all that I have met.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

My mind is clouded with a doubt.

Not once or twice in our rough-island story The path of duty was the way to glory.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! Blow, bugle! answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Believing where we cannot prove.