The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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.
The groves were God's first temples.
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
