And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

With A Great Poet The Sense Of Beauty Overcomes Every Other Consideration, Or Rather Obliterates All Consideration.