There’s too much beauty upon this earth

A paradox is a truth standing on its head in order to attract attention.

Yea, howso we dream, Or how bravely we do; The end is the same, Be we traitor or true: And after the bloom And the passion is past

Art was a palace once, things great and fair, And strong and holy , found a temple there:

Time’s horses gallop down the lessening hill.

Dear Sister, You dream like mad, you love like tinder, you aspire like a star-struck moth - for what? That you may hive little lyrics, and sell to a publisher for thirty pieces of silver.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.