Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

My soul is an entangled knot, upon a liquid vortex wrought by Intellect in the Unseen residing, and thine doth like a convict sit, with marline-spike untwisting it, only to find its knottiness abiding.

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these. She a window flower. And he a winter breeze.