And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
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.
More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.
That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.