Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His

A Moment's Thought Is Passion's Passing Knell.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

I Would Jump Down Etna For Any Public Good - But I Hate A Mawkish Popularity.