'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.