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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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