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

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.

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

She gave up beauty in her tender youth, gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; she covered up her eyes lest they should gaze on vanity, and chose the bitter truth.