I would not if I could be gay."

It is the mood of little griefs. An unquiet wind murmurs, but it does
not rise to a wail.

I fain would bid th' Æolian tones prolong
To mourn the jolly Day's discomfiture,
And, mindful of mine own estate, among
The buds and grieving trees my plaint outpour,
That sweets must fade though Night will aye endure.
But crafty Nature, fancy to beguile
From her disaster, which, alas! is mine,
Bids to the front in radiant defile
A trooping host whose pomps incarnadine
The faded trophies of the dying day,
And, lest I fail before so brave array,
She decks the quiet clouds where fancies dwell
With sweet translucent gleam and melting hue
To woo my swooning sense with softer spell
Of blissful pink and hyacinthine blue.

* * * * *

"Life," said the Rajah, "is the fairest of flowers, and its beauty and
fragrance are for him who plucks."

"Plucks," sighed one, "to find it wither in his grasp."

Said the Rajah, "To do justice to life, one must forget death."