The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heav'n their curl'd And solemn… - Edward Coote Pinkney

Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words.

The sportive hopes that used to chase their shifting shadows on,
Like children playing in the sun, are gone—for ever gone;
And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind,
Like Janus, when his gates are shut, looks forward and behind. <p>Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone,
Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harp string's tone;
And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free,
If touch'd, will yield the music yet, it first received of thee.<p>