I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

She Was Like Me In Lineaments-- Her Eyes Her Hair, Her Features, All, To The Very Tone Even Of Her Voice, They Said Were Like To Mine; But Soften'd All, And Temper'd Into Beauty; She Had The Same Lone Thoughts And Wanderings, The Quest Of Hidden Knowledge, And A Mind To Comprehend The Universe: Nor These Alone, But With Them Gentler Powers Than Mine, Pity, And Smiles, And Tears-- Which I Had Not; And Tenderness-- But That I Had For Her; Humility-- And That I Never Had. Her Faults Were Mine-- Her Virtues Were Her Own-- I Loved Her, And Destroy'd Her!

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

Be Thou The Rainbow In The Storms Of Life. The Evening Beam That Smiles The Clouds Away, And Tints Tomorrow With Prophetic Ray.

No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers Absence Has Made Me Prone To Roving; But Older, Firmer Hearts Than Ours, Have Found Monotony In Loving.