The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
The groves were God's first temples.
Follow thou thy choice.
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.