"Of writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,— Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is."

"Here's ivy! — take them, as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine."

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! —and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death."

"I seek no copy now of life's first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!"

"Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot My soul's full meaning into future years, That they should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures, from life that disappears!"

"Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame."

"God only, who made us rich, can make us poor."

"When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curvèd point, — what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented?"

"If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile —her look —her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" - For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity."

"Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death."

"And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men."

"And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine."

"There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o’ the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!"

"She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows."

"And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,— "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!""

"By thunders of white silence."

"But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave."

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west."

"I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear drops on my cheek Show I am sad; But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek, Until made glad. I cannot feel That all is well, when dark'ning clouds conceal The shining sun; But then I know God lives and loves; and say, since it is so, "Thy will be done.""

"And I said in underbreath — All our life is mixed with death, — And who knoweth which is best? And I smiled to think God's greatness Flowed around our incompleteness, — Round our restlessness, His rest."

"Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet, From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear, and fall, and miss Thee so, Who art not missed by any that entreat."

"But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware."

"The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales' Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fireflies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales."

"What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river."

"Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past — Oh, never call it loving!"

""Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, Sir, I say. Colours seen by candlelight, Will not look the same by day."

"Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully, Render praise and favor: With my hand upon his head, Is my benediction said Therefore and for ever."

"I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless."

"Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers— And that cannot stop their tears."

"Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, shows a heart within blood-tinctured of a veined humanity."

"Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man."

"There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!— Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!""

"How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough."

"I would be your wife most gladly! (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate."

"There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,— 'Tis the lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"

"On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Two old chairs, and half a candle,— One old jug without a handle,— These were all his worldly goods."

"They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon."

"Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

"They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the bong-tree grows."

"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?""

"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!""

"On a little heap of Barley Died my aged uncle Arly, And they buried him one night;— Close beside the leafy thicket;— There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;— There, his ever-faithful Cricket;— (But his shoes were far too tight.)"

"Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still!"

"It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pebbles are happier without their toes."

"The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;"— He replied, — "Fish fiddle de-dee!""

"When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights. When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore;— When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore"

"On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat."

"Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of Swat?"

"Calico Jam, The little Fish swam, Over the syllabub sea, He took off his hat, To the Sole and the Sprat, And the Willeby-Wat,— But he never came back to me!"

"Calico Pie, The little Birds fly Down to the calico tree, Their wings were blue, And they sang "Tilly-loo!" Till away they flew,— And they never came back to me!"