A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.