Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.

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

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

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

There is no safety-net to protect against attraction.

Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.