Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

Love and doubt have never been on speaking terms.

Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother. Doubt is a foundling unhappy and astray, and though his own mother who gave him birth should find him and enfold him, he would withdraw in caution and in fear.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

A woman whom Providence has provided with beauty of spirit and body is a truth, at the same time both open and secret, which we can understand only by love, and touch only by virtue.

The giving and receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.

Our worst fault is our preoccupation with the faults of others.