Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,Enwrought with golden and silver light,The blue and the dim and the dark clothsOf night and light and the half light,I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Wine enters through the mouth,Love, the eyes.I raise the glass to my mouth,I look at you,I sigh.

To an Isle in the WaterShy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes, And lays them in a row. To an isle in the water With her would I go. She carries in the candles, And lights the curtained room, Shy in the doorway And shy in the gloom; And shy as a rabbit, Helpful and shy. To an isle in the water With her would I fly.

But Love has pitched his mansion inThe place of excrement;For nothing can be sole or wholeThat has not been rent.

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.