Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.

Everything In Our Political Life Tends To Hide From Us That There Is Anything Wiser Than Our Ordinary Selves.

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.

Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

Six Years-six Little Years-six Drops Of Time.