And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. - John Keats

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that wheather there be shine, or gloom o'er cast, They always must be with us, or we die.

There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.

I have so much of you in my heart.