No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
Fuss is the froth of business.
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.