The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.
We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
Whoever lives true life, will love true love.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!