To know her was to love her.

To know her was to love her

I lived to write, and wrote to live

I came to the place of my birth and cried: "The friends of my youth, where are they?"--and an echo answered, "Where are they?"

The soul of music slumbers in the shell, Till wak'd and kindled by the master's spell, And feeling hearts touch them but lightly--pour A thousand melodies unheard before!

The Good are better made by Ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.