I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind.

You are loved. If so, what else matters?

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.

Man has never been the same since God died.

Life has no friend.

You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,-- Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.