There are the song-poets and the life-poets, or rather the God-poems.

Sympathy is lovely and dear--chiefly when it comes unsought; but the fame after which so many would-be, yea, so many real poets sigh, is poorest froth.

Donal could sing his songs like the birds, content with the blue heaven or the sheep for an audience--or any passing angel that cared to listen.

On the hill-sides he would sing them aloud, but it was of the merest natural necessity.

A look of estrangement on the face of a friend, a look of suffering on that of any animal, would at once and sorely affect him, but not a disparaging expression on the face of a comparative stranger, were she the loveliest woman he had ever seen.
He was little troubled about the world, because little troubled about himself.
Lady Arctura and lord Forgue lived together like brother and sister, apparently without much in common, and still less of misunderstanding.
There would have been more chance of their taking a fancy to each other if they had not been brought up together; they were now little together, and never alone together.
Very few visitors came to the castle, and then only to call.