The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.