07 Mar Scenes that I adore, to me usually remainBeautiful, whether under summer’s sunBeheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rainfall
I worry to love thee, nice, becauseLove's the ambassador of reduction;White flake of childhood, adhering soTo my personal soiled raiment, thy timid snowAt tenderest touch will shrink and go.My cardio, by many snares beguiled,has exploded timorous and wild.It would fear thee generally not very,Wert thou not harmless-small.Because thy arrows, not yet dire,Are nonetheless unbarbed with destined flame,We worry thee over hadst thou stoodFull-panoplied in womanhood.
I happened to be thus chill, and overworn, and sad,to get a girl got truly the only happiness I had.I wandered the road since silent as a mouse,purchase great garments, and fittings for all the house.
Like myself not, wonderful youngster
My music are all of thee, just what though we singOf morning if the performers include but in sight,Of evening, or even the melancholy evening,Of birds that o'er the reddening seas wing;Of tune, of fire, of winds, or mists that clingTo mountain-tops, of winter season all-in white,Of rivers that toward ocean need her trip,Of summer whenever flower is blossoming.In my opinion no felt that isn't thine, no breathOf lifetime I inhale beyond thy sanctity;Thou art the sound that quiet uttereth,And of all noises thou ways the sense.
