I always made an awkward bow.

To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.

When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.