So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
The white flower of a blameless life.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.