So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

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

The last great Englishman is low.