Her Hair That Lay Along

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Love, Which Is Quickly Kindled In The Gentle Heart, Seized This Man For The Fair Form That Was Taken From Me, The Manner Still Hurts Me. Love Which Absolves No Beloved One From Loving, Seized Me So Strongly With His Charm That, As Thou Seest, It Does Not Leave Me Yet

If God In His Wisdom Have Brought Closethe Day When I Must Die,that Day By Water Or Fire Or Airmy Feet Shall Fall In The Destined Snarewherever My Road May Lie.

The Wombat Is A Joy, A Triumph, A Delight, A Madness!