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.

When first we met we did not guess that Love would prove so hard a master.

Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow.

When Death to either shall come - I pray it be first to me.

My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night.

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

Science comforting man's animal poverty and leisuring his toil, hath humanized manners and social temper, and now above her globe-spredd net of speeded intercourse hath outrun all magic, and disclosing the secrecy of the reticent air hath woven a web of invisible strands spiriting the dumb inane with the quick matter of life.