It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Who then will explain the explanation?

And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.