My Altars Are The Mountains And The

The Light Of Love, The Purity Of Grace, The Mind, The Music Breathing From Her Face, The Heart Whose Softness Harmonised The Whole — And, Oh! That Eye Was In Itself A Soul!

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

Age Shakes Athena's Tower, But Spares Gray Marathon.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar