...Whatever dies was not mixed equally, If our two loves be one Or thou and I love so alike That none can slacken, none can die.
That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.
Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.
Death is an ascension to a better library.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.