Ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites, Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. - Algernon Charles Swinburne

For till the thunder and trumpet be,
Soul may divide from body, but not we
One from another

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.

England, An Ode

All our past acclaims our future: Shakespeare's voice and Nelson's hand,
Milton's faith and Wordsworth's trust in this our chosen and chainless land,
Bear us witness: come the world against her, England yet shall stand.