Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

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.

I dore not always touch her, lest the kiss Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, Brief, bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

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

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

His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.