OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?

Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

My sun sets to raise again.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.