Poetry is talking on tiptoe.
She poured a little social sewage into his ears.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.