Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.