New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

Silence is the best response to a fool.

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.

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

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.

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain

Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.