Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
Death lieth still in the way of life, Like as a stone in the way of a brook; I will sing against thee, Death, as the brook does, I will make thee into music which does not die.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
. . . the poet, he nothing affirmeth, and therefore never lieth.
Heaven lieth at the feet of mothers.
He that lieth down with Dogs, shall rise up with Fleas.