Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought / As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

To Sorrow / I bade good-morrow, / And thought to leave her far away behind; / But cheerly, cheerly, / She loves me dearly; / She is so constant to me, and so kind.

I was too much in solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought, as an only resource.

Eternity eludes us, even as a thought.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain / Clings cruelly to us.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, / Is - Love forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.