There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

Pale in her fading bowers the Summer stands, Like a new Niobe with clasped hands, Silent above the flowers, her children lost, Slain by the arrows of the early…

Joy may be a miser, But Sorrow's purse is free.

Silence is the speech of love, The music of the spheres above.