I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

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

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world improve a sense of its natural beauties upon us. Like poor Falstaff, although I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have know from my infancy - their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with superhuman fancy.

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.