Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The

A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me Can Have No Lack Of Good Society.

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

The True Poet Is A Friendly Man. He Takes To His Arms Even Cold And Inanimate Things, And Rejoices In His Heart.

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.