Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.

What you look at hard seems to look at you.

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.

Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.