I Only Know We Loved In Vain;

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.