Of Love, That Fairest Joys

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!

Let Us Not Go Hurrying About And Collecting Honey, Bee-like Buzzing Here And There For A Knowledge Of What Is Not To Be Arrived At, But Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive, Budding Patiently Under The Eye Of Apollo, And Taking Hints From Every Noble Insect That Favours Us With A Visit - Sap Will Be Given Us For Meat And Dew For Drink.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.