Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As

Out Of My Own Great Woe I Make My Little Songs.

I Do Not Know The Meaning Of My Sadness; There Is An Old Fairy Tale That I Cannot Get Out Of My Mind.

With The Rose The Butterfly's Deep In Love, A Thousand Times Hovering Round; But Round Himself, All Tender Like Gold, The Sun's Sweet Ray Is Hovering Found.

The Men Of The Past Had Convictions, While We Moderns Have Only Opinions.

The Deepest Truth Blooms Only From The Deepest Love.