Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?