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.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.

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

O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?

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

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