“I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.”

This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.

It’s better to have tried and failed than to live life wondering what would’ve happened if I had tried.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power.

All things human change.

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.

Silence, beautiful voice.

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.

More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.

Death left its old tragic heaven and became the lyrical core of man: his invisible truth, his visible secret.

Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.

Animals hear about death for the first time when they die.

If your eyes could speak what stories would it tell? Would it even be able to speak or would it end up choking on all the water?

The eighth deathly sin; a being comfortably lowering their standards for a person who isn’t worthy or good enough to be with someone like them.

In the veins of poets flows ink, with which they create words for eternity. When they die a part of their souls will still stay alive in their poetry.

I hate that time flies away too soon. I hate that dreams die faster when I don’t have you.

She had a precious light in her heart, that kept him alive in the moments he desired death, she was his savior.