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?

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

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

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.