“She is at rest.Peace, peace, she cannot hear,Lyre or sonnet,All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.”

“RequiescatTread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast,I vex my heart aloneShe is at rest.Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life’s buried here,Heap earth upon it.”

“She lives the poetry she cannot write.”

“She...can talk brillantly upon any subject provided she knows nothing about it.”

“Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.”

“Jack: “Gwendolen, wait here for me.”Gwendolen: “If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

“Your days are your sonnets.”