Greatness, As We Daily See It, Is

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

Belief In A Future Life Is The Appetite Of Reason.

O What A Thing Is Age! Death Without Death's Quiet.

Life And Death Appear More Certainly Ours Than Whatsoever Else; And Yet Hardly Can That Be Called Ours, Which Comes Without Our Knowledge, And Goes Without It.

Cruelty Is No More The Cure Of Crimes Than It Is The Cure Of Sufferings; Compassion, In The First Instance, Is Good For Both; I Have Known It To Bring Compunction When Nothing Else Would.