“My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.”

What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.

And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

I can’t be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)

A beam in darkness: let it grow.

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

A still small voice spake unto me, ‘Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Love will conquer at the last.

The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

My heart tells stories my head can only dream about.

Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.

There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly.

Where the heart is the mind works best.

For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.

Everybody said, “Follow your heart”. I did, it got broken.