I Despise Him For Himself,

Proud People Breed Sad Sorrows For Themselves. But If You Be Afraid Of Your Touchiness, You Must Ask Pardon, Mind, When She Comes In.

Love Is Like The Wild Rose-briar; Friendship Like The Holly-tree. The Holly Is Dark When The Rose-briar Blooms, But Which Will Bloom Most Constantly?

Oh, For The Time When I Shall Sleep Without Identity.

He Might As Well Plant An Oak In A Flowerpot, And Expect It To Thrive, As Imagine He Can Restore Her To Vigour In The Soil Of His Shallow Cares!

Any Relic Of The Dead Is Precious, If They Were Valued Living.