Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.
Books are men of higher stature.
When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .
A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.
I should not dare to call my soul my own.