Jealousy's Eyes Are Green.

One Word Is Too Often Profaned For Me To Profane It, One Feeling Too Falsely Disdain'd For Thee To Disdain It. One Hope Too Like Dispair For Prudence To Smother, I Can Give Not What Men Call Love: But Wilt Thou Accept Not The Worship The Heart Lifts Above And Heaven Rejects Not: The Desire Of The Moth For The Star, The Devotion Of Something Afar From The Sphere Of Our Sorrow?

I Consider Poetry Very Subordinate To Moral And Political Science.

Ah, Woe Is Me! Winter Is Come And Gone. But Grief Returns With The Revolving Year.

The Desire Of The Moth For The Star, Of The Night For The Morrow, The Devotion To Something Afar From The Sphere Of Our Sorrow.

When A Man Marries, Dies, Or Turns Hindu, His Best Friends Hear No More Of Him.