But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small! No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee, But finds some coupling with the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere; No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim: And, — glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, — In such a little tremour of the blood The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes, The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.

Oh — this life, this life! There is comfort in it, they say, & I almost believe — but the brightest place in the house, is the leaning out of the window! — at least, for me.

So we have great wars sometimes, and I put up Dumas’ flag, or Soulié’s, or Eugène Sue’s (yet he was properly possessed by the ‘Mystères de Paris’) and carry it till my arms ache.