Sorrow Is The Great Idealizer.

At The Devil's Booth Are All Things Sold. Each Ounce Of Dross Costs Its Ounce Of Gold.

The Stiff Rails Were Softened To Swan's-down, And Still Fluttered Down The Snow.

O Chime Of Sweet Saint Charity, Peal Soon That Easter Morn When Christ For All Shall Risen Be, And In All Hearts New-born! That Pentecost When Utterance Clear To All Men Shall Be Given, When All Shall Say My Brother Here, And Hear My Son In Heaven!

Here Was A Type Of The True Elder Race, And One Of Plutarch's Men Talked With Us Face To Face.

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac A Ghastly Parody Of Real Spring Shaped Out Of Snow And Breathed With Eastern Wind.