I always made an awkward bow.
I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true.
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!