Real are the dreams of gods, and soothly pass their pleasures in a long immortal dream. - John Keats

If I am destined to be happy with you here — how short is the longest Life.

You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.