Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.

O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!

Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

Within the midnight of her hair, Half-hidden in its deepest deeps.

The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.

All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.

Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.