Alack Our Life, So Beautiful To See,

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

For Virtue Only Finds Eternal Fame.

My Flowery And Green Age Was Passing Away, And I Feeling A Chill In The Fires Had Been Wasting My Heart, For I Was Drawing Near The Hillside Above The Grave.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

Events Appear Sad, Pleasant, Or Painful, Not Because They Are So In Reality, But Because We Believe Them To Be So And The Light In Which We Look At Them Depends Upon Our Own Judgment.