Lord Alfred Tennyson

It becomes no man to nurse despair, but, in the teeth of clenched antagonisms, to follow up the worthiest till he die.

It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use,- As tho' to breathe were life!

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this.