The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

Of writing many books there is no end.

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!