Love Is A Bodily Shape;

Great Is The Art Of Beginning, But Greater Is The Art Of Ending.

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is Not A Hill Crowned With Sunshine And Visited By The Muses And The Graces, But An Old, Mouldering House, Full Of Gloom And Haunted By Ghosts.

The Dawn Is Not Distant, Nor Is The Night Starless; Love Is Eternal.