Were It Not For Love, Poor Life

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

Where's The Need Of Singing Now?

Ah, When Shall Come Love's Courage To Be Strong! Tell Me, O Lord--tell Me, O Lord, How Long Are We To Keep Christ Writhing On The Cross!

Love Must Have Wings To Fly Away From Love, And To Fly Back Again.

Pity Is Like A Knife, Sometimes, And It May Pierce One Who Employs It More Shrewdly Than The Victim It Would Save.