Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever