The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her

Night Is The Time To Weep,to Wet With Unseen Tearsthose Graves Of Memory Where Sleepthe Joys Of Other Years.

Blue Thou Art, Intensely Blue; Flower, Whence Came Thy Dazzling Hue?

Who That Hath Ever Been Could Bear To Be No More? Yet Who Would Tread Again The Scene He Trod Through Life Before?

Time Is Eternity Begun.

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.