Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.

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

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.