“We are not sure of sorrow; and joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.”

“Today will die tomorrow.”

“As the dawn loves the sunlight that must ceaseEre dawn again may rise and pass in peace;Must die that she being dead may live again,To be by his new rising nearly slain.So rolls the great wheel of the great world round,And no change in it and no fault is found,And no true life of perdurable breath,And surely no irrevocable death.Day after day night comes that day may break,And day comes back for night’s reiterate sake.Each into each dies, each of each is born:Day past is night, shall night past not be morn?Out of this moonless and faint-hearted nightThat love yet lives in, shall there not be light?Light strong as love, that love may live in yet?Alas, but how shall foolish hope forgetHow all these loving things that kill and dieMeet not but for a breath’s space and pass by?Night is kissed once of dawn and dies, and dayBut touches twilight and is rapt away.So may my love and her love meet once more,And meeting be divided as of yore.Yea, surely as the day-star loves the sunAnd when he hath risen is utterly undone,So is my love of her and hers of me—And its most sweetness bitter as the sea.”

“So Tristram looked on Iseult face to faceand knew not, and she knew not. The last time --The last that should be told in any rhymeHeard anywhere on mouths of singing menThat ever should sing praise of them again;The last hour of their hurtless hearts at rest,The last that peace should touch them, breast to breast,The last that sorrow far from them should sit,This last was with them, and they knew not it.”

“Fierce midnights and famishing morrows, And the loves that complete and controlAll the joys of the flesh, all the sorrowsThat wear out the soul.”

“Love, is it morning risen or night deceasedThat makes the mirth of this triumphant east?Is it bliss given or bitterness put byThat makes most glad men's hearts at love's high feast?Grief smiles, joy weeps, that day should live and die."Is it with soul's thirst or with body's drouthThat summer yearns out sunward to the south,With all the flowers that when thy birth drew nighWere molten in one rose to make thy mouth?O love, what care though day should live and die?"Is the sun glad of all love on earth,The spirit and sense and work of things and worth?Is the moon sad because the month must flyAnd bring her death that can but bring back birth?For all these things as day must live and die."Love, is it day that makes thee thy delightOr thou that seest day made out of thy light?Love, as the sun and sea are thou and I,Sea without sun dark, sun without sea bright;The sun is one though day should live and die."O which is elder, night or light, who knows?And life or love, which first of these twain grows?For life is born of love to wail and cry,And love is born of life to heal his woes,And light of night, that day should live and die."O sun of heaven above the wordly sea,O very love, what light is this of thee!My sea of soul is deep as thou art high,But all thy light is shed through all of me,As love's through love, while day shall live and die.”

“And thither, ere sweet night had slain sweet day,Iseult and Tristram took their wandering way,And rested, and refreshed their hearts with cheerIn hunters' fashion of the woods; and hereMore sweet it seemed, while this might be, to dwellAnd take of all world's weariness farewellThan reign of all world's lordship queen and king.Nor here would time for three moon's changes bringSorrow nor thought of sorrow; but sweet earthFostered them like her babes of eldest birth,Reared warm in pathless woods and cherished well.And the sun sprang above the sea and fell,And the stars rose and sank upon the sea;And outlaw-like, in forest wise and free,The rising and the setting of their lightsFound those twain dwelling all those days and nights.And under change of sun and star and moonFlourished and fell the chaplets woven of June,And fair through fervours of the deepening skyPanted and passed the hours that lit July,And each day blessed them out of heaven above,And each night crowned them with the crown of love.Nor till the might of August overheadWeighed on the world was yet one roseleaf shedOf all their joy's warm coronal, nor aughtTouched them in passing ever with a thoughtThat ever this might end on any dayOr any night not love them where they lay;But like a babbling tale of barren breathSeemed all report and rumour held of death,And a false bruit the legend tear impearledThat such a thing as change was in the world.”