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Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
W.B. Yeats
So runs my dream, but what am I?
An infant crying in the night
An infant crying for the light
And with no language but a cry.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
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Sometimes the heart sees what's invisible to the eye.
---Tennyson
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The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait.
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