What Is More Gentle Than A Wind

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.

Let Us Away, My Love, With Happy Speed; There Are No Ears To Hear, Or Eyes To See, - Drown'd All In Rhenish And The Sleepy Mead. Awake! Arise! My Love And Fearless Be, For O'er The Southern Moors I Have A Home For Thee.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.