Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.

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

One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !

Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.

But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.