I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.

Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, like marigolds, toward the sunny side.

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover; there's no rain left in heaven.

How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.

The red Sahara in an angry glow, / With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed / Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?

Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.