In The Midway Of This

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

Do Not Desert Me When I Need You Most. And If We Can't Go On Together, Let's Retrace Our Steps As Quickly As We Can.

There's Not The Least Thing Can Be Said Or Done, But People Will Talk And Find Fault.

I Was So Full Of Sleep At The Time That I Left The True Way.

There Is No Greater Pain Than To Remember, In Our Present Grief, Past Happiness.