The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
My business is circumference.
My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?
I don't profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.