Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

Either sex alone is half itself.

The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight