Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!

He destroyed their vines with hail, and their sycomore trees with frost.

Of all ills that one endures,/ hope is a cheap and universal cure.

Though you be absent here, I needs must say / The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay, / As ever they were wont to be.

Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!