Change lays not her hand upon truth.

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.

Despair the twin-born of devotion.

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 tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.

Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.

There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.