Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name- The Prairies.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart.

'Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in this world! May the liar's vile tongue be cut out!'

The liar's punishment is, not in the least that he is not believed, but that he cannot believe any one else.