In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Where Thou Art Gone, Adieus And Farewells Are A Sound Unknown.

Sends Nature Forth The Daughter Of The Skies... To Dance On Earth, And Charm All Human Eyes.