The Bloom Is Gone, And With The

On Sundays, At The Matin-chime, The Alpine Peasants, Two And Three, Climb Up Here To Pray; Burghers And Dames, At Summer's Prime, Ride Out To Church From Chamberry, Dight With Mantles Gay, But Else It Is A Lonely Time Round The Church Of Brou.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.

The "hairy Quadruped Furnished With A Tail And, Pointed Ears, Probably Arboreal In His Habits," This Good Fellow Carried Hidden In His Nature, Apparently, Something Destined To Develop Into A Necessity For Humane Letters.

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

The Word "god" Is Used In Most Cases As By No Means A Term Of Science Or Exact Knowledge, But A Term Of Poetry And Eloquence, A Term Thrown Out, So To Speak, As A Not Fully Grasped Object Of The Speaker's Consciousness -- A Literary Term, In Short; And Mankind Mean Different Things By It As Their Consciousness Differs.