Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As

A Man May Love A Woman Perfectly, And Yet By No Means Ignorantly Maintain A Thousand Women Have Not Larger Eyes. Enough That She Alone Has Looked At Him With Eyes That, Large Or Small, Have Won His Soul.

The Little Cares That Fretted Me, I Lost Them Yesterday Among The Fields Above The Sea, Among The Winds At Play.

I Heard An Angel Speak Last Night/and He Said, "write!"

For None Can Express Thee, Though All Should Approve Thee. I Love Thee So, Dear, That I Only Can Love Thee.

Much Of The Possibility Of Being Cheerful Comes From The Faculty Of Throwing Oneself Beyond Oneself.