I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.

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

What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.