Everything crowds under the low horizon: / Steep beach, blue water, towels, red bathing caps...
You're here and God's in heaven...
I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug...
At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will remember them...
If ever there were a spring day so perfect...
And how can man die better / Than facing fearful odds, / For the ashes of his fathers, / And the temples of his Gods...
"Ye shall see one thing to master all: / 'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now / Is hung with bloom along the bough...
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, / Hath put a spirit of youth in everything...
A man who cultivates his garden, as Voltaire wished. / He who is grateful for the existence of music...
Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies...
Come live with me and be my love...