So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!