Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

Their Woes Gone By, And Both To Heaven Upflown, To Bow For Gratitude Before Jove's Throne.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

Like A Mermaid In Sea-weed, She Dreams Awake, Trembling In Her Soft And Chilly Nest.