Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .