My sun sets to raise again.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s most quiet need, by

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

I cannot speak in happy tones.

Purple lilies Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

There are nettles everywhere, but smooth, green grasses are more common still;