As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

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

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

That which we are, we are.

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

My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.