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.

It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

He who breathes deepest lives most.