Change lays not her hand upon truth.

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

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

Time stoops to no man's lure.

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