Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; And e'en the dearest--that I love the best-- Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God.

Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.

Wildness is my suiting scene.

Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.

I never saw so sweet a face. As that I stood before. My heart has left it dwelling place ... and can return no more.