Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

There is only one romance the Soul's.

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.