A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

To have joy, one must share it.

Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.