I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

Since when was genius found respectable?

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

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

God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.