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

O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.