Of writing many books there is no end.

For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

I f thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say, I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way Of speaking gently ... for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and, certes, brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day- For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee-and love so wrought, May be unwrought so.

Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."