God Himself Is The Best Poet, And

If Thou Must Love Me, Let It Be For Naught Except For Love's Sake Only.

God Keeps A Niche In Heaven, To Hold Our Idols; And Albeit He Brake Them To Our Faces, And Denied That Our Close Kisses Should Impair Their White,-- I Know We Shall Behold Them Raised, Complete, The Dust Swept From Their Beauty, Glorified, New Memnons Singing In The Great God-light.

Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

You Were Made Perfectly To Be Loved - And Surely I Have Loved You, In The Idea Of You, My Whole Life Long.

The English Have A Scornful Insular Way Of Calling The French Light.