Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Youth is stranger than fiction.
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.