In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

...whatever Dies Was Not Mixed Equally, If Our Two Loves Be One Or Thou And I Love So Alike That None Can Slacken, None Can Die.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Between Cowardice And Despair, Valour Is Gendred.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.