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

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

I would build a cloudy House For my thoughts to live in; When for earth too fancy-loose And too low for Heaven! Hush! I talk my dream aloud - I build it bright to see, - I build it on the moonlit cloud, To which I looked with thee.

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.

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 man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.