For myself, I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form. I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days. Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than 50 common years could ever contain.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk. Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness, that thou light-winged Dryad of the trees in some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless singest of summer in full-throated ease.