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.

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.

So sweet love seemed that April morn, when first we kissed beside the thorn, so strangely sweet, it was not strange we thought that love could never change.

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

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

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

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