I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.