Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, – as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!
Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
There’s not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow’r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman’s tongue; A string which hath no discord.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.