Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.

If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.