A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a prince's hall. - Alfred Tennyson

Who can fancy warless men? Warless? War will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon? Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon?

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

I know not if I know what true love is,
But if I know, then, if I love not him,
I know there is none other I can love