The mountain rill

Great faith it needs, according to my view, To trust in that which never could be true.

And, like some low and mournful spell, To whisper but one word—farewell!

Flowers are Love's truest language.

I'm king of the dead—and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold; And my scepter of rule is the spade I hold: Come they from cottage or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! Let them loiter in pleasure or …

He loved his kind, but sought the love of few, And valued old opinions more than new.

Pure and undimmed, thy angel smile Is mirrored on my dreams, Like evening's sunset-girded isle Upon her shadowed streams: And o'er my thoughts thy vision floats, Like melody of spring-bird, notes;