Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.

There's not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow'r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love.