My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

The Uttered Part Of A Man's Life, Let Us Always Repeat, Bears To The Unuttered, Unconscious Part A Small Unknown Proportion. He Himself Never Knows It, Much Less Do Others.