On A Lone Winter Evening, When The

It Can Be Said Of Him, When He Departed He Took A Man's Life With Him. No Sounder Piece Of British Manhood Was Put Together In That Eighteenth Century Of Time.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive.

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.