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

Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.

Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

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.