A grave, on which to rest from singing?

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

His ears were often the first thing to catch my tears.