The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.

Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.

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

I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.