Bells Are Musics Laughter.

It Was Not In The Winter Our Loving Lot Was Cast! It Was The Time Of Roses, We Plucked Them As We Passed!

Jasmine Is Sweet, And Has Many Loves.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

We Watch'd Her Breathing Through The Night, Her Breathing Soft And Low, As In Her Breast The Wave Of Life Kept Heaving To And Fro.