But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

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

Love is the only gold.

It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.

Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.