That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

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

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

A man in armour is his armour's slave.

The world and life's too big to pass for a dream