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

All writing is a form of prayer.

Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

There is an old saying "well begun is half done"-'tis a bad one. I would use instead-Not begun at all 'til half done.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--- No---yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever---or else swoon in death.