Alexander Smith

Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.

Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

Everything is sweetened by risk.

Everything is sweetened by risk.

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,
Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet:
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We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,
Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet:
One little hour! and then, away they speed
On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,
To meet no more.

We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not read more

We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.