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.

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

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

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.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

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

Fear that makes faith may break faith.