She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last -- far off -- at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

She saw the snowy poles of moonless Mars, That marvellous round of milky light Below Orion, and those double stars Whereof the one more bright Is circled by the other

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Brothers in Art: a friendship so complete

And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!