Dawes.
I love the ever-varying hue
Upon the face of heaven;
I would not have it always blue,
But oft with lightning riven.
I would not have wide oceans spread
A mirror e’er to see;
But lashed to many a cresty head
By scowling tempests free!
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre—
Set all its music flowing;
Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,
To keep the soul-flower growing.
Mrs. Osgood.
The rapid and the deep—the fall, the gulf,
Have likenesses in feeling and in life.
And life, so varied, hath more loveliness
In one day than a creeping century
Of sameness.
Bailey.
Youth loves and lives on change,
Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last
Becomes variety; and takes its place.
Bailey.
Variety’s the source of joy below,
From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change the expiring flame renews.