“I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.”

Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.

Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.

Joy, once lost, is pain.

Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.

If a person’s religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him nevertheless.

A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.

Love withers under constraints: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.

Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.

When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.

Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?

It takes tremendous will to compete in any athletic endeavor, so it meant going to bed early and getting my homework done in advance. I had to sacrifice things, like a social life, to be a skater at 15. But I loved skating so much that it was worth everything to me.

Thank God we’re living in a country where the sky’s the limit, the stores are open late and you can shop in bed thanks to television.

You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.

Your presence is poetic, mysterious and deep. If you don’t mind I’d like to read you; uncover the dirty secrets hidden within your pages and fill that missing space between your sheets.

No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed.

I hate housework! You make the beds, you do the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again.

I had a nice dinner. I let the evening unfold, flow. I like to sit in a chair with a wine glass. When I woke up, I thought, ‘Why didn’t I go to bed at 11?’ I came back at 3 and went to bed at 5.

Double up, baby. Your lips are the song and the dance floor is our bed.