Faults in English prose derive not so much from lack of knowledge, intelligence or art as from lack of thought, patience or goodwill.

You mean that people who continue virtuous in an old-fashioned way must inevitably suffer in times like these?

The difference between you and her (whom I to you did once prefer) Is clear enough to settle: She like a diamond shone, but you Shine like an early drop of dew Poised on a red rose petal. The dew-drop carries in its eye Mountain and forest, sea and sky, With every change of weather; Contrariwise, a diamond splits The prospect into idle bits That none can piece together.

The gift of independence once granted cannot be lightly taken away again.

Marriage, like money, is still with us; and, like money, progressively devalued.

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.

Haunted Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing And lay ghost hands on everything, But leave the noonday's warm sunshine To living lads for mirth and wine. I met you suddenly down the street, Strangers assume your phantom faces, You grin at me from daylight places, Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet Dead men down the morning street.