Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.

Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.

The beast faith lives on its own dung.

Heart's ease of pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart's ease.

The sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of every spring.