BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

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.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

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

We are fastened to a dying animal.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.