The pure and worthy Mrs. Stowe
Is one we all are proud to know
As mother, wife, and authoress-
Thank God, I am content with less!

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Happy, O happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares,
With mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heav'n prepares;
Deeming his life a Scene, the world a Stage,
Whereon man acts his weary Pilgrimage.

The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Happy you are
With your life's sincerity-cry.
Unhappy you are
With your heart's insecurity-sigh.

[Excerpt from “Transcendence-Perfection”]

Around its mountain many footpaths wind,
But only one unto its top attains;
Not he who searches closest, takes most pains,
But he who seeks not, that one way may find.

Happiness is silent, or speaks equivocally for friends,
Grief is explicit and her song never ends,
Happiness is like England, and will not state a case,
Grief, like Guilt, rushes in and talks apace.

    Clouds darken the plain.
From all sides, the mountains of the horizon move forward; the plain shrinks, crumpled into valleys that grow deeper. The three rivers become torrents that flow swiftly in their cavernous beds towards those dark spots where they meet: the cities.
    Then the sun again.

Halcyon days, now wars are ending.
You shall find where-e'er you sail
Tritons all the while attending
With a kind and gentle gale.

Hair is heaven's water flowing eerily over us
Often a woman drifts off down her long hair and is lost