For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.

A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.