For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store.
And is not hers the heart alone

That hath pleasure and pride, in a prize, when won?

L. E. L.

Alas, the love of woman! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 'tis lost, life has no more to bring

To them, but mockeries of the past alone. . . .

←

Byron.

The maid that loves

Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank
And puts her trust in miracles for safety.

It is a fearful thing

Young.

To love as I love thee; to feel the world-
The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world,
A blank without thee. Never more to me
Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now

I have no hope, that does not dream for thee;

I have no joy, that is not shared by thee;

I have no fear, that does not dread for thee.
All that I once took pleasure in-my lute,
Is only sweet when it repeats thy name;
My flowers, I only gather them for thee;
The book drops listless down, I cannot read,
Unless it is to thee; my lonely hours
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives,
After my own romantic fantasies.

He is the star round which my thoughts revolve
Like satellites.

L. E. L. The Ancestress.