World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.

Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.