What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
Many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.
I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.