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

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 come…

Not what we would, but what we must Makes up the sum of living; Heaven is both more and less than just In taking and in giving.

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…