But crystal frosts are all agone,
And that which hangs upon the spray,
It is no snow, but flow'r of May!
[SONNET.]
DEATH.
It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,