The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.

Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.

Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.

How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away

May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.

I do not know what to do, my mind's in two.