The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

A brotherhood of venerable trees.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

Small service is true service, while it lasts.

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?