“Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No.It is immortal as immaculate Truth,'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,Drops from the stem of life--for it will grow,In barren regions, where no waters flow,Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb,That but itself and darkness nought doth show,It is my love's being yet it cannot die,Nor will it change, though all be changed beside;Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,Though vows be false, and faith itself deny,Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.”

“She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me.Oh! then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light.”

“But it is not only the difficulty and labor which men take in finding out of truth, nor again that when it is found it imposeth upon men's thoughts, that doth bring lies in favor; but a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself.”

“Water, water, everywhere,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, everywhere,Nor any drop to drink.”

“And to be wroth with one we love…Doth work like madness in the brain.”

“The Other Side of a Mirror I sat before my glass one day,And conjured up a vision bare,Unlike the aspects glad and gay,That erst were found reflected there -The vision of a woman, wildWith more than womanly despair.Her hair stood back on either sideA face bereft of loveliness.It had no envy now to hideWhat once no man on earth could guess.It formed the thorny aureoleOf hard, unsanctified distress.Her lips were open - not a soundCame though the parted lines of red,Whate'er it was, the hideous woundIn silence and secret bled.No sigh relieved her speechless woe,She had no voice to speak her dread.And in her lurid eyes there shoneThe dying flame of life's desire,Made mad because its hope was gone,And kindled at the leaping fireOf jealousy and fierce revenge,And strength that could not change nor tire.Shade of a shadow in the glass,O set the crystal surface free!Pass - as the fairer visions pass -Nor ever more return, to beThe ghost of a distracted hour,That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!”

“Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.”