She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use

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.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

Two human loves make one divine.