Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.

Youth is an arithmetical statement of passing interest, each hour eats it up.

Marriage I think For women Is the best of opiates. It kills the thoughts That think about the thoughts, It is the best of opiates. So said Maria. But too long in solitude she'd dwelt, And too long her thoughts had felt Their strength. So when the man drew near, Out popped her thoughts and covered him with fear. Poor Maria! Better that she had kept her thoughts on a chain, For now she's alone again and all in pain; She sighs for the man that went and the thoughts that stay To trouble her dreams by night and her dreams by day.

This is the simplest of all thoughts, that Death must come when we call, although he is a god.

Unpopular, lonely and loving, Elinor need not trouble, For if she were not so loving, She would not be so miserable.

Life in the [London] suburb is richer at the lower levels. At these levels the people are not self-conscious at all, they are at liberty to be as eccentric as they please, they do not know that they are eccentric.