The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting.
There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.
'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.