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We are not happy, sweet; our state

Is strange and full of doubt and fear; More need of words that ills abate ;

Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thou and me,

Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor I can live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be
To hide the love thou feel for me.

THE ISLE.

THERE was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven:

And its roof was flowers and leaves

Which the summer's breath enweaves,

Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze

Pierce the pines and tallest trees,

Each a gem engraven.

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave

A lake's blue chasm.

ΤΟ

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

TIME.

UNFATHOMABLE Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe

Are brackish with the salt of human tears!

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow Claspest the limits of mortality!

And sick of prey, yet howling on for more;
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore,
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,

Unfathomable Sea?

LINES.

THAT time is dead forever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead forever!

We look on the past

And stare aghast ·

At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life's dark river.

The stream we gazed on then, rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;

But we yet stand

In a lone land,

Like tombs to mark the memory

Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.

November 5th, 1817.

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