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.

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

Marvellous mercies and infinite love.

She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

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

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.

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