Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.

Prayer ardent opens heaven.

Take God from nature, nothing great is left.