As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee

Think not I am what I appear.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

History - the devil's scripture

Eternity forbids thee to forget.