Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

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

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.

Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.

Despair the twin-born of devotion.

While three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three.