The Swan, Like The Soul Of The

Matrimony; The High Sea For Which No Compass Has Yet Been Invented.

The Beauteous Eyes Of The Spring's Fair Night With Comfort Are Downward Gazing.

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

I Do Not Murmur, Even If My Heart Break.

The Arrow Belongs Not To The Archer When It Has Once Left The Bow; The Word No Longer Belongs To The Speaker When It Has Once Passed His Lips, Especially When It Has Been Multiplied By The Press.