Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
Death: the grand perhaps.
Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
O never star Was lost; here We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven Above us. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendor soon or late Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.
Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.