Where are they all? Some bloom again as tulips or as roses
There in the dust how many forms forever lie concealed!
Sleep is for him, and pride for him. and night for him
Upon whose arm your lovely tresses all dishevelled lay
She hears my grief, and for a while retires into herself
What captivating sympathy! What artless mastery!
The object of creation was mankind, and nothing else
We are the point round which the seven compasses revolve