The budding rose above the rose full blown.
Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.