Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.