Land And Sea, Weakness And Decline Are

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy For Ever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness; But Still Will Keep A Bower Quiet For Us, And A Sleep Full Of Sweet Dreams, And Health, And Quiet Breathing.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

O, Sorrow! Why Dost Borrow Heart's Lightness From The Merriment Of May?