Now no joy but lacks salt, That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air

How often already you've had to be told, Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold. Dread fifty above more than fifty below. I have to be gone for a sea…

And then we saw him bolt. We heard the miniature thunder where he fled, And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray, Like a shadow across instead of be…

The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne; Al this mene I be love.

Amor e fogo que arde sem se ver, E ferida que doi, e nao se sente; E um contentamento descontente, E dor que desatina sem doer. E um nao querer mais que bem qu…

I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.