How silent are the winds!

Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.

All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.

I said that I loved the wise proverb, Brief, simple and deep; For it I'd exchange the great poem That sends us to sleep.

Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

Love can take what shape he pleases; and when once begun his fiery inroad in the soul, how vain the after knowledge which his presence gives! We weep or rave; but still he lives, and lives master and lord, amidst pride and tears and pain.

The sea! The sea! The open sea!, The blue, the fresh, the ever free!