No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.

Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

My candle burns at both ends

Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!