Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
What is more gentle than a wind is summer?
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.
Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman - they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.