human
He, who is gone, was one of the very kindest friends I ever possessed, and yet he was not kinder, perhaps, to me than to others. His intense mind and powerful feeling would, I truly believe, have done the world some service had his life been spared--but he was of too sensitive a nature--and thus he was destroyed! One story he completed, and that is to me now the most pathetic poem in existence.
gpt
Isabella, or the Pot of Basil.
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Garden of Florence is written in the couplets of
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Endymion, and is a beautiful version of the tale once more retold by Alfred de Musset in
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Simone. From
gpt
The Romance of Youth
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He read and dreamt of young Endymion, Till his romantic fancy drank its fill; He saw that lovely shepherd sitting lone, Watching his white flocks upon Ida's hill; The Moon adored him--and when all was still, And stars were wakeful--she would earthward stray, And linger with her shepherd love, until The hooves of the steeds that bear the car of day, Struck silver light in the east, and then she waned away!