Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway

I Almost Wish We Were Butterflies And Liv'd But Three Summer Days - Three Such Days With You I Could Fill With More Delight Than Fifty Common Years Could Ever Contain.

When I Behold, Upon The Night's Starr'd Face, Huge Cloudy Symbols Of A High Romance, And Think That I May Never Live To Trace Their Shadows, With The Magic Hand Of Chance.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

Now A Soft Kiss - Aye, By That Kiss, I Vow An Endless Bliss.