Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain,
Till you might faint with that delicious pain.’
In the whole world of poetry Love has never been sung with more beauty than in this great poem.
‘Ah me!
I am not thine: I am a part of thee.
. . . . . . . . . .