Ah, Tell Me Not That

How Beautiful, Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning! The First Sunshine On The Leaves: The First Wind, Laden With The First Breath Of The Flowers—that Deep Sigh With Which They Seem To Waken From Sleep; The First Dew, Untouched Even By The Light Foot Of The Early Hare; The First Chirping Of The Rousing Birds, As If Eager To Begin Song And Flight; All Is Redolent Of The Strength Given By Rest, And The Joy Of Conscious Life.

Alas! The Praise Given To The Ear Ne'er Was Nor Ne'er Can Be Sincere.

Oh, No! My Heart Can Never Be Again In Lightest Hopes The Same; The Love That Lingers There For Thee Hath More Of Ashes Than Of Flame.

We Need To Suffer, That We May Learn To Pity.

Childhood, Whose Very Happiness Is Love.