Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.