To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?
On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.