Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!
I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.