I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.

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.

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

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.

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

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?