No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.