Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

Death is Life's high meed.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?