Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
I count life just a stuff to try the soul’s strength on.
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
Faultless to a fault.
But how carve way i’ the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
The moment eternal – just that and no more – When ecstasy’s utmost we clutch at the core While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut, and lips meet!