And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.

And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.

The sensation of dying is sweet, sensuous, placid.

Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth.

I might show facts as plain as day: but, since your eyes are blind, you'd say, 'Where? What?' and turn away.

I dream of you to wake; would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on.