Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

That queen of secrecy, the violet.

Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.