Love comes unseen; we only see it go.
I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet.
What ye have been ye still shall be, When we are dust the dust among, O yellow flowers!
Not as ours the books of old - Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore - Rows of type, and nothing more.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour - let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.