Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

Silence, beautiful voice.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

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