Our aspirations are our responsibilities.
Lose who may-I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!
Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.
When I love most, love is disguised. In hate; and when hate is surprised, in love, then I hate most.
Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.