My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.

Good words are better than bad strokes.

His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

Who can be patient in extremes?

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.