Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.

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

Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.

What is Love? It is that powerful attraction towards all that we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves.

I never was attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend, To cold oblivion.

Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.