There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.

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

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.

Despair the twin-born of devotion.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

Change lays not her hand upon truth.