Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay.

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning- Oh friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmos…

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears.