O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.