Every Age Thinks Its Battle

The Swan In The Pool Is Singing, And Up And Down Doth He Steer, And, Singing Gently Ever, Dips Under The Water Clear.

Oh What Lies There Are In Kisses! And Their Guile So Well Prepared! Sweet The Snaring Is; But This Is Sweeter Still, To Be Ensnared.

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As If In The Torch-dance Circling.

Immortality—dazzling Idea! Who First Imagined Thee! Was It Some Jolly Burgher Of Nuremburg, Who With Night-cap On His Head, And White Clay Pipe In Mouth, Sat On Some Pleasant Summer Evening Before His Door, And Reflected In All His Comfort, That It Would Be Right Pleasant, If, With Unextinguishable Pipe, And Endless Breath, He Could Thus Vegetate Onwards For A Blessed Eternity? Or Was It A Lover, Who In The Arms Of His Loved One, Thought The Immortality-thought, And That Because He Could Think And Feel Naught Beside!—love! Immortality!