My Life, My Joy, My Food, My

Dream On, Dream On, Of Bloody Deeds And Death.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The Daintier Sense.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty