And We Wept That One So Lovely

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.

It Is A Sultry Day; The Sun Has Drunk The Dew That Lay Upon The Morning Grass; There Is No Rustling In The Lofty Elm That Canopies My Dwelling, And Its Shade Scarce Cools Me. All Is Silent, Save The Faint And Interrupted Murmur Of The Bee, Settling On The Sick Flowers, And Then Again Instantly On The Wing.

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.