To Be Slow In Words Is A

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid

Absence From Those We Love Is Self From Self - A Deadly Banishment.

Enjoy'd No Sooner But Despised Straight, Past Reason Hunted, And No Sooner Had Past Reason Hated

All Days Are Nights To See Till I See Thee, And Nights Bright Days When Dreams Do Show Thee Me.