You Cannot Conceive How I

But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The Brier, For Winds To Kiss And Grateful Bees To Feed.

I Have So Much Of You In My Heart.

And There Shall Be For Thee All Soft Delight That Shadowy Thought Can Win, A Bright Torch, And A Casement Ope At Night, To Let The Warm Love In!

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.