On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin

I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.

For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

Mother of dead dogs.