Whose Lines Are Mottoes Of The Heart,whose

Never Wedding, Ever Wooing, Still A Lovelorn Heart Pursuing, Read You Not The Wrong You're Doing In My Cheek's Pale Hue? All My Life With Sorrow Strewing; Wed Or Cease To Woo.

Love! The Surviving Gift Of Heaven, The Choicest Sweet Of Paradise, In Life's Else Bitter Cup Distilled.

What Though My Winged Hours Of Bliss Have Been, Like Angel Visits, Few And Far Between.

He Scorn'd His Own, Who Felt Another's Woe.

On Linden, When The Sun Was Low, All Bloodless Lay The Untrodden Snow, And Dark As Winter Was The Flow Of Iser, Rolling Rapidly.