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

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.

Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

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.

There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.