But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think; – George Gordon, Lord Byron
Unless you can muse in a crowd all day/ On the absent face that fixed you;/ Unless you can love, as the angels may,/ With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;/ Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,/ Through behoving and unbehoving;/ Unless you can die when the dream is past -/ Oh, never call it loving! — Elizabeth Barrett Browning, A Woman’s Shortcomings
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