It Matters Not How Long

True Faith Nor Biddeth Nor Abideth Form, The Bended Knee, The Eye Uplift; Is All Which Men Need Render; All Which God Can Bear. What To The Faith Are Forms? A Passing Speck, A Crow Upon The Sky.

Poets Are All Who Love, Who Feel Great Truths, And Tell Them; And The Truth Of Truths Is Love.

Could We But Think With The Intensity We Love With, We Might Do Great Things.

I Cannot Love As I Have Loved, And Yet I Know Not Why; It Is The One Great Woe Of Life To Feel All Feeling Die.

It Is No Great Misfortune To Oblige Ungrateful People, But An Unsupportable One To Be Forced To Be Under An Obligation To A Scoundrel.