Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. ... I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
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