The clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.

By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.

It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Shall Earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now?

Honest people don't hide their deeds.

Cold inthe earthand the deepsnow piled abovethee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last byTime's all-serving wave?