God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.

A man may love a woman perfectly, and yet by no means ignorantly maintain a thousand women have not larger eyes. Enough that she alone has looked at him with eyes that, large or small, have won his soul.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!