Lord Alfred Tennyson

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?"

He never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.

Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die...

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.

Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; 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.