On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.
You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.
I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.