Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.

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

I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chattered all the way. But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne'er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!

In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.

What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?