“What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?”

“Hast thou ice that thou shalt bind itTo thy breast, and make thee deadTo thy children, to thine own spirit's pain?When the hand knows what it dares,When thine eyes look into theirs,Shalt thou keep by tears unblindedThy dividing of the slain?These be deeds Not for thee:These be things that cannot be!”

“Have mountains, and waves, and skies, no significance but what we consciously give them, when we employ them as emblems of our thoughts?”

“What if?..What if I am all to see?What if life is only this? And Ignorance is bliss?What if love is only pain? And nothing can be gained by living everydayAnd there is no better way?What then?”

“O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou beWhen time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feetWhere thou and I henceforth may never meet.”

“Happiness is a how, not a what. A talent, not an object.”