The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.

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.

Time stoops to no man's lure.

There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.

Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.

For words divide and rend But silence is most noble till the end.

Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.