What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
Of writing many books there is no end.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
He who breathes deepest lives most.
Whoso loves, believes in the impossible
The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.