Joys Are Bubble-like--what Makes Them Bursts Them

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

Mind And Night Will Meet, Though In Silence, Like Forbidden Lovers.

The Heart Is Its Own Fate.

It Is Sad To See The Light Of Beauty Wane Away, Know Eyes Are Dimming, Bosoms Shrivelling, Feet Losing Their Springs, And Limbs Their Lily Roundness; But It Is Worse To Feel The Heart-spring Gone, To Lose Hope, Care Not For The Coming Thing, And Feel All Things Go To Decay Within Us.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.