Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.

Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.

You never know what life means till you die; even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.

Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?