Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.

Thought, Stumbling, Plods Past Fallen Temples, Vanished Gods, Altars Unincensed, Fanes Undecked, Eternal Systems Flown Or Wrecked; Through Trackless Centuries That Grant To The Poor Trudge Refreshment Scant, Age After Age, Pants On To Find A Melting Mirage Of The Mind.

Perhaps A Maiden's Bashfulness Is More A Matron's Lesson Than Our Lips Aver.

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.