He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.

Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?

The hearts that never lean must fall.

A Word that Breathes Distinctly Has not the Power to Die

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.

Hope is a thing with feathers

Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.