Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I .... In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)

What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.