For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.

For Me, My Heart, That Erst Did Go Most Like A Tired Child At A Show, That Sees Through Tears The Mummers Leap, Would Now Its Wearied Vision Close, Would Childlike On His Love Repose, Who Giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

You're Something Between A Dream And A Miracle.

Death Forerunneth Love To Win "sweetest Eyes Were Ever Seen."

He Who Breathes Deepest Lives Most.