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

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.