The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

A tale in everything.

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.