Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

All That Is Best In The Great Poets Of All Countries Is Not What Is National In Them, But What Is Universal.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

My Book And Heart Shall Never Part.

He Looks The Whole World In The Face For He Owes Not Any Man.