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.

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

Children use the fist until they are of age to use the brain.

My love for him was so exquisitely pure that if we all were capable of giving and receiving such a beautiful gift the world would be a far more brilliant place; I think we'd all be poets.

The plague of gold strikes far and near.

Books succeed; and lives fail.

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.