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.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered isgrief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

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

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.