You're something between a dream and a miracle.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

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 lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.