O Nature, gracious mother of us all,
Within thy bosom myriad secrets lie
Which thou surrenderest to the patient eye
That seeks and waits.
God pity the tortured hearts that will pant through this night! And the agony of the poor wife who has heard that her husband is really killed!
Pain is no longer pain when it is past.
But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie; Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!
The lotos bowed above the tide and dreamed.
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