Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.