There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.