I stole that line from a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892):
…
I said to the rose, “The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose,
“For ever and ever, mine.”And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
…
Do I regret stealing? No, I don’t. I am a thief, and a poet, and a card-carrying member of the International Federation for Romantic Dreamers.