What is more gentle than a wind is summer?

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed.

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

My chest of books divide amongst my friends.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it — make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me —write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.

You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.