A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
The busy have no time for tears.
Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?