O love! who gave thee thy superfluous name?
Loving and dying — is it not the same?

Where shaken shallows multiply the moon,
Alone amid the silence laughs the Loon.
Heard far away across the night, he seems
Some happy wood-god laughing in his dreams.

It came and went with footsteps low,
A transient guest in this land of pain;
Wherefrom? whereto? we only know
From God's hands into His hands again.

Gay Bassus for ten thousand bought
A Tyrian robe of rich array,
And was a gainer. How? Be taught —
The prudent Bassus did not pay!

Small things and humble greatest lessons hold,
Which to the seeing eye they soon unfold —
As on some thorny road my way I pass
I get new courage from a blade of grass,
Which 'mid the turmoil and the weeds that kill
Holds fearlessly its course appointed still.

DEAR P OWELL ,

These funeral pomps, this incense of Arabian perfumes, these vivid torches, reminders are of these our fugitive days for us to weep the sins we have committed.
You, who amidst idleness and loves taste the impious and deceitful flatteries of the world, and lie drowsily among delights, you love shadows, you embrace air, you follow horrors!
Look, he that once, laden with amorous spoils, had scarlet in his cheeks, gold in his hair, now finds himself a dry and hideous skull.

In this dark and solitary valley, the stag that bellows to the water's roar bends his eyes upon the river and watches his image happily.
The Nymph of this stream every evening opens the portal of her crystal dwelling and sings a serenade to us.
The Nymphs, drawn by the chase to the shadow of these forests, seek the most hidden recesses far from the Satyr's lurking-place.
Once at the foot of this vast oak (almost as old as the very sun), Bacchus, Love and Sleep dug the grave of Silenus.

O lovely hill, whence in the bitter season hangs debate 'twixt art and dubious nature, whose shoulders clad with flowers and grass are spread to the sun which glows and glitters on you, no sooner has he risen on the horizon than you delight to woo your lovely bosom and your leafy brow in your clear lake, even as a beautiful young woman who adorns herself in veil or kirtle at a mirror.

Ah, when will health to my sick heart return!
The good advice I give it does but spurn.
Flung to the winds, 'twill not be borne away,
Cast in the flames, alas, it will not burn.