There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

I can't be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

As the husband is, the wife is.

And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.