Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

The thrall in person may be free in soul

Better not be at all than not be noble.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.