Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

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

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.