Familiar acts are beautiful through love.

Hell is a city much like London- A populous and smoky city

Death is the veil which those who live call life: They sleep, and it is lifted.

Kings are like stars-they rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose.

It were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet.

Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

The great secret of morals is love.

Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.