Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance; if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.

Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.

Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song.

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom.

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.

Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.