I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But

In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.