There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, and a blush for having done it: There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.