My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.