My day-mind can endure / Upright, in hope, all it must undergo. / But O, afraid, unsure, / My night-mind waking lies too low, too low.

But, visiting Sea, your love doth press / And reach in further than you know, / And fills all these; and, when you go, / There's loneliness in loneliness.

Tender, too, is the silence of human feet. You have but to pass a season amongst the barefooted to find that man, who, shod, makes so much ado, is naturally as silent as snow.

Assuredly it would be a pity if laughter should ever become, like rhetoric and the arts, a habit.

Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers, / Floats in the mist, a little cloud at tether.

Our fathers valued change for the sake of its results; we value it in the act.

No mirror keeps its glances.