Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.
To silence gossip, don't repeat it.
Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.