I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

Within thy Grave! Oh no, but on some other flight - Thou only camest to mankind To rend it with Good night

The only secret people keep is immortality.