What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

The year is dying in the night.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.