I Do Think Better Of

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.