Unto us all our days are love's anniversaries, each one In turn hath ripened something of our happiness.

Unto us all our days are love's anniversaries, each one In turn hath ripened something of our happiness.

I know that if odour were visible, as colour is, I'd see the summer garden in rainbow clouds.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.

O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

Beauty being the best of all we know sums up the unsearchable and secret aims of nature.