Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever! — William Shakespeare Copy Share Image
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? — Robert Bridges Copy Share Image
