He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?