The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .
And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.