And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
A pity beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love.
Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead ... That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?
Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too.
Fun I love, but too much fun is of all things the most loathsome. Mirth is better than fun, and happiness is better than mirth.
Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.
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