But Love has pitched his mansion in The place of excrement; For nothing can be sole or whole That has not been rent.

'Fair and foul are near of kin, And fair needs foul,' I cried. 'My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied.'

What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

On est souvent trompe en amour, souvent blesse et souvent malheureux; mais on aime, et quand on est sur le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en ar…

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subt…

Loved once for ever loved: how surely sounds This gospel to me since I learned to list Truth from thy lips, mine own evangelist. What thought presumes to set n…