When fate has allowed to any man more than one great gift, accident or necessity seems usually to contrive that one shall encumber and impede the other.

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

Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.

On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.

I dore not always touch her, lest the kiss Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, Brief, bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.

The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight.