I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
Dead men would start and move toward me to learn of love.
Love that I bear within my breast how is my armour melted how my heart
The whole white world is ours.
Ah love is bitter and sweet, but which is more sweet the bitterness or the sweetness, none has spoken it.
Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
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