I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.

Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.