And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
Alfred Lord TennysonTis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
Alfred Lord TennysonFor every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
Alfred Lord TennysonAnd down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.
Alfred Lord Tennyson