Maxioms by Lord Alfred Tennyson
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne.
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne.
So much to do, so little done, such things to be.
So much to do, so little done, such things to be.
Ours not to reason why Ours but to do and die.
Ours not to reason why Ours but to do and die.
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.
The net is not spread for the hawk or the kite.
The net is not spread for the hawk or the kite.
