The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

You May My Glories And My State Depose, But Not My Griefes; Still Am I King Of Those.

Good Night, Good Night! Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow, That I Shall Say Good Night Till It Be Morrow.

Un-thread The Rude Eye Of Rebellion, And Welcome Home Again Discarded Faith.