I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.

The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them. The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom.

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.

Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!

I love tranquil solitude.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.