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

The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's Is ? not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be ? but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means.

The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!

The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!

Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!

A man in armour is his armour's slave.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.