Have you observed that one can measure
Poetic worth of words in terms of pleasure?
Honey and milk have been sweet food so long,
These words are naturalized in Song.
And from my joy in you the time is ripe
That I find lyric value for your pipe
What tender pleasure do your lips invoke,
Moving in gracious meditation as you smoke!

All right
Go ahead!
What's in a name?
I guess I'll be locked into
As much as I'm locked out of!

Though no kind angel glanc'd aside the ball,
Nor fed'ral arms pour'd vengeance for his fall:
Brave Scammel's fame, to distant regions known,
Shall last beyond this monumental stone,
Which conqu'ring armies (from their toils return'd)
Rear'd to his glory, while his fate they mourn'd.

Three dames led three meinies to the mountain, Ino, Autonoë, and apple-cheeked Agavè, and gathering there wild leaves of the shag-haired oak, and living ivy and groundling asphodel, wrought in a lawn of the forest twelve altars, unto Semelè three and unto Dionysus nine. Then took they from a box offerings made of their hands and laid them in holy silence upon those altars of their gathering, as was at once the precept and the pleasure of the great Dionysus. Meanwhile Pentheus spied upon all they did from a steepy crag, being crept into an ancient mastich-tree such as grow in that country.

From what God soever sprung, Nicias, Love was not, as we seem to think, born for us alone, nor first unto us of mortal flesh that cannot see the morrow look things of beauty beautiful.

When I am dead, what I have felt so long
My soul shall know in clearer, purer light:
That where I loathed and hated, I was wrong;
That where I loved and pitied, I was right.

If God had willed, He could have made me meeker;
But God, my God, Who orders all things well,
Said, “You shall be a rebel and a seeker.”
And, God be praised!—I seek and I rebel.

O star of Venus, gold glory of the night, Vesper, who excellest other stars with thy luminous glitter as the bright sun excels with his shining the tresses of Cynthia, Vesper, do not deny thy white light to me — and kisses — when I lean on the breast of Hyella. Sole friend on my way when all things are darkened in the night, when Cynthia withholds her light from me!
Lust of guile, desire of blood, draw me not forth, but the might of Cupidus, the summer-heat in my heart. Thou art star of Venus, mother of holy love; be thou kindly towards lovers.

I am he through whom dead painting lived again. Swift as my hand was, it was subtle. Nature herself lacks what my art lacks; to none is it given to paint more or better.
Do you wonder at the bell-tower that rings with holy bronze? From my design it grew towards the stars. I am Giotto. Why should I count my works? My name can stand in place of long-drawn praise.

Oh! Love is a terror, a terror; but why do I sob out his name?
For he crackles and glows with complaining, with cursing he bursts into flame!
It is strange how thou camest, Aphrodite, all wet from the sea that is gray,
But red and forever afire is this fruit of thyself and the spray!