O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.