In the broken bowl
O light of dead and of dying days!
O Love! in thy glory go,
In a rosy mist and a moony maze,
O’er the pathless peaks of snow.
But what is left for the cold grey soul,
That moans like a wounded dove?
One wine is left in the broken bowl—
‘Tis—To love, and love, and love.
—George MacDonald, Phantastes
Picture from http://pixdaus.com/single.php?id=98815