I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.

There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.

Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.

If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain We'd hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain.

When I hear that a personal friend has fallen into matrimonial courses, I feel the same sorrow as if I had heard of his lapsing into theism — a holy sorrow, unmixed with anger.