O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
Men from children nothing differ.
Having nothing, nothing can he lose.