Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.
It is only to the happy that tears are a luxury.
All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star on life's tremulous ocean.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.