Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
What a thing friendship is - World without end.