I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

Of writing many books there is no end.

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

Books succeed; and lives fail.

Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.