All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.