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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.