Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.