That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

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.

Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.