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.
Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
The beast faith lives on its own dung.
Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me.
When I hear that a personal friend has fallen into matrimonial courses, I feel the same sorrow as if I had heard of his lapsing into theism — a holy sorrow, unmixed with anger.