I would not have a lady’s heart,

Sunk in the stones of some cruel art;

I would not have her breath decay

In a dungeon’s gloom or bosom stray.

Like running streams we’d wind our way,

With love indeed to dream and play;

With green of grass and blossoms deep,

Our hearts us keep till wakeful sleep!

Ah, love’s delight can never cease,

With music sweet to speak of peace!

• Elizabeth Barrett Browning