He That Would Eat Of Love Must

I Make Bean Stalks, I'm A Builder, Like Yourself.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year; And You Must Welcome From Another Part Such Noble Moods As Are Not Mine, My Dear. No Gracious Weight Of Golden Fruits To Sell Have I, Nor Any Wise And Wintry Thing; And I Have Loved You All Too Long And Well To Carry Still The High Sweet Breast Of Spring. Wherefore I Say: O Love, As Summer Goes, I Must Be Gone, Steal Forth With Silent Drums, That You May Hail Anew The Bird And Rose When I Come Back To You, As Summer Comes. Else Will You Seek, At Some Not Distant Time, Even Your Summer In Another Clime.

I Know, But I Do Not Approve. And I Am Not Resigned.

Without Music I Should Wish To Die.

I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear, So Make The Most Of This, Your Little Day, Your Little Month, Your Little Half A Year, Ere I Forget, Or Die, Or Move Away, And We Are Done Forever; By And By I Shall Forget You, As I Said, But Now, If You Entreat Me With Your Loveliest Lie I Will Protest You With My Favorite Vow. I Would Indeed That Love Were Longer-lived, And Vows Were Not So Brittle As They Are, But So It Is, And Nature Has Contrived To Struggle On Without A Break Thus Far,-- Whether Or Not We Find What We Are Seeking Is Idle, Biologically Speaking.