On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .

Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.