Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.