I live not in myself, but I becomePortion of that around me: and to meHigh mountains are a feeling, but the humof human cities torture.

The stars are forth, the moon above the topsOf the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!I linger yet with Nature, for the nightHath been to me a more familiar faceThan that of man; and in her starry shadeOf dim and solitary loveliness,I learn'd the language of another world.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,      Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;      ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link      Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.How little do we know that which we are!How less what we may be! The eternal surgeOf time and tide rolls on, and bears afarOur bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the gravesOf Empires heave but like some passing waves.

There are two Souls, whose equal flow In gentle stream so calmly run, That when they part—they part?—ah no! They cannot part—those Souls are One.

There's music in the sighing of a reed;There's music in the gushing of a rill;There's music in all things, if men had ears:Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,In vain our fate in sighs deplore;Remembrance only can remain,But that, will make us weep the more.