She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

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

I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge.

I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.

The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere.

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.