I Would Not Wish Any Companion In

I Love Thee, And It Is My Love That Speaks

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

All Fancy-sick She Is And Pale Of Cheer, With Sighs Of Love, That Costs The Fresh Blood Dear.

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.