Poetry Makes Life What Lights And Music

It Was A Foggy Day In London, And The Fog Was Heavy And Dark. Animate London, With Smarting Eyes And Irritated Lungs, Was Blinking, Wheezing, And Choking; Inanimate London Was A Sooty Spectre, Divided In Purpose Between Being Visible And Invisible, And So Being Wholly Neither.

The Clouds Were Flying Fast, The Wind Was Coming Up In Gusts, Banging Some Neighboring Shutters That Had Broken Loose, Twirling The Rusty Chimney-cowls And Weathercocks, And Rushing Round And Round A Confined Adjacent Churchyard As If It Had A Mind To Blow The Dead Citizens Out Of Their Graves. The Low Thunder, Muttering In All Quarters Of The Sky At Once, Seemed To Threaten Vengeance For This Attempted Desecration, And To Mutter, "let Them Rest! Let Them Rest!

Look Round And Round Upon This Bare Bleak Plain, And See Even Here, Upon A Winter's Day, How Beautiful The Shadows Are! Alas! It Is The Nature Of Their Kind To Be So. The Loveliest Things In Life... Are But Shadows; And They Come And Go, And Change And Fade Away, As Rapidly As These.

Do Not Close Your Heart Against All My Efforts To Help You.

You Have No Idea What It Is To Have Anybody Wonderful Fond Of You, Unless You Have Been Got Down And Rolled Upon By The Lonely Feelings That I Have Mentioned As Having Once Got The Better Of Me.