Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

Is this wide world not large enough to fill thee, Nor Nature, nor that deep man's Nature, Art? Are they too thin, too weak and poor to still thee, Thou little heart?

Where is delight? and what are pleasures now?— Moths that a garment fret. The world is turned memorial, crying, "Thou Shalt not forget!"

Breathe slumbrous music round me, sweet and slow, To honied phrases set! Into the land of dreams I long to go. Bid me forget!