The days full of sunshine, the nights full of stars, and occasionally storms when day turns to night, and fluttering ribands, and mourning habiliments, and a beggar's want, and princely splendor. On the streams of the tears there used to come sailing the boat with the songs, the rare boat, with treasures from lands that have no name, from seas of as yet unmeasured depth .

O thou the heir of these domains
To whom this lovely scene belongs
Accept the muses artless strains
Thou patron of her early songs
To you the debt the bard repays
His hearts warm raptures is his all
Nor yet disdain such humble praise
" What envy dares not flattery call"

Yon sailing swans with arching necks
Bowd tow'rds the glassy waters seem
As musing oer the shade they make
That swims beneath them down the stream
& diving oft as they woud join
Those shadows moving as they move
Or reach the fairey lands that shine
With lake & skye as theirs above

The moon is old with memories of lovers who are dust;
For youth is amorous madness; romance, but glamorous lust.
And while with age we contemplate what fools we all have played,
The comedy repeats itself with moonlight, man, and maid.

On upturned soil, between rolling stones, in angry onslaughts of bruising thunder-storms — what am I, what do I signify alone by myself, who bear my light of life with quiet trembling?
The sea awakens in seething tempest, currents mount from the disturbed depths — what avails now my chosen rudder, the tallest mast on my ships?
I am ready, ready every moment to entrust the flickering flames of life to the Master of destruction and upbuilding, to the Lord of continents and seas .

I know that everything here comes from depths. I know that everything here comes from broadness; but I love the tower's tip wrought of steel, I love the banner that shows the wind a way and distance!
And it is easy for me here to bear my scarlet sorrow, and it is easy yet to strive for new happiness when I behold how multitudes are driven away by Thy glowing sword-like piercing flash .
From Thy eyes has disappeared already that bitter, aged tear-source, and clearly are burning in Thy eyeballs two greenish drops of gall ...

Why dost thou bend my soul? Why dost thou groan breast-deep? Why dost thou bathe in the dust? Why dost thou cleanse thyself with ashes, like birds in heat that are timorous of water and cool themselves with sod and refresh themselves with dung?
Why dost thou bend my soul? Why dost thou groan breast-deep? Like the seething of fresh blood on mute red stone; like the seething that never quiets down through chaste and pure innocence — until pious seething blood spills over it with tremour .

Who is, who is yon rider, that rides, yet does not move from the spot? â?¦ Be still, my blood, be still, don't cry — yon rider strange am I myself.
At the middle of night, amidst the field, is someone standing in his way? â?¦ Be still, my blood, be still, don't cry — yon rider strange, am I myself.
And if it's dark all around, why does the rider not turn back? — Be still, my blood, be still, don't cry — yon rider strange, am I myself.

The sun will set behind the hill, then shall Love come on tip-toe, then shall Love come on tip-toe to the Loneliness that sits upon a golden stone and cries in solitude.
The sun will set behind the hill, then shall the golden peacock come flying, then shall the golden peacock come flying, and take us all along thither, thither where yearnings will impel.
The sun will set behind the hill, then shall the night come and sing lullaby, then shall the night come and sing lullaby over the eyes that are already closing to sleep in eternal rest.

The bigot still determined shuts his eyes
Against the insult of being further wise
To modern skill his head makes no pretence
But grows right famous for the want of sense