Music, the mosaic of the air.
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Art indeed is long, but life is short.
As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.