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

Are there not, dear Michael, Two points in the adventure of the diver,- One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge; One, when a prince he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge.

Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.

You should not take a fellow eight years old and make him swear to never kiss the girls.

Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?

My business is not to remake myself, but to make the absolute best of what God made.

This could but have happened once,- And we missed it, lost it forever.