How long at this conceit I've swept with all my might, Lost is the labor: 'tis unheard of quite!

Lost were those standards whereby men at home Judge all things calmly; each became a law Unto himself amid these savage sights.

Self-confidence lost is more than half a defeat.

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

Him, thus dismay'd, the approaching barons found; Outstretch'd he lay, and weeping, on the ground; To reckless ears their summons they declar'd, Lost was his fay, for nought beside he car'd; So forth they led him, void of will or word, Dead was his heart within, his wretched life abhorr'd.

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD Over the water the shadows are creeping, Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, Only the fountain sings on as before.

all our sex in one sad hour undone? Lost are our arts, our learning, our renown Since nature's tide of wit came rolling down.

The losing of his Mamie was, of course, the heaviest of his many bludgeonings.

No matter if my hands attain The golden crown or cross Only to love is such a gain That losing is not loss.