A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

Truth is truth howe'er it strike.

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 . . .

One may do whatever one likes. In art, the only thing is, to make sure that one does like it.

A minute of success pays for years of failure.

Success in marriage is more than finding the right person: it is being the right person.

But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.