Charles Lamb

The red-letter days now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

The moon looks On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this."

When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake?

Neat, not gaudy.

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,- There 's nothing true but Heaven.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.