Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'... - Alfred Tennyson

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white
All but her face, and that clear-featured face
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees; all times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name…