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

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.

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

To have read the greatest works of any great poet, to have beheld or heard the greatest works of any great painter or musician, is a possession added to the best things of life.

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

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

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.