|O, hurry, where
by water, among the trees,
The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,
When they have looked upon their images
Would none had ever loved but you and I!
Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed
O hurry to the ragged wood, for there
Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh,
When I am
sad and weary. When I think all hope has gone.
Those have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont