The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!
The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.