Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.

Trust me not at all, or all in all.

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.