How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.