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

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

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

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.