There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.

All the little emptiness of love!

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.

For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.