“It is the glory and good of ArtThat Art remains the one way possibleOf speaking truth - to mouths like mine, at least.”

“My first thought was, he lied in every word,That hoary cripple, with malicious eyeAskance to watch the working of his lieOn mine, and mouth scarce able to affordSuppression of the glee, that pursed and scoredIts edge, at one more victim gained thereby.”

“My whole life long I learn'd to love,This hour my utmost art I prove.And speak my passion—— heaven or hell?She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!”

“That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaughed the blue eyes without a stain.And I untightened the next tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .”

“There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;....and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.”

“Paracelsus At times I almost dreamI too have spent a life the sages’ way,And tread once more familiar paths. PerchanceI perished in an arrogant self-relianceAges ago; and in that act a prayerFor one more chance went up so earnest, soInstinct with better light let in by death,That life was blotted out — not so completelyBut scattered wrecks enough of it remain,Dim memories, as now, when once more seemsThe goal in sight again.”

“I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier’s art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.”