It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."

All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

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

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.