Quick-loving Hearts ... May Quickly

God Himself Is The Best Poet, And The Real Is His Song.

If We Tried To Sink The Past Beneath Our Feet, Be Sure The Future Would Not Stand.

Souls Are Dangerous Things To Carry Straight Through All The Spilt Saltpetre Of This World.

The English Have A Scornful Insular Way Of Calling The French Light.

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.