Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.

Fills The air around with beauty.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Despair and Genius are too oft connected