Advertising keeps Gaia free! Interested in sponsoring us?
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.
We love music for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon at a touch.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
To know her was to love her.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
