The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their

The Holiest Of All Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart, When The Full River Of Feeling Overflows;- The Happy Days Unclouded To Their Close; The Sudden Joys That Our Of Darkness Start As Flames From Ashes; Swift Desires That Dart Like Swallows Singing Down Each Wind That Blows!

Weak Minds Make Treaties With The Passions They Cannot Overcome, And Try To Purchase Happiness At The Expense Of Principle; But The Resolute Will Of A Strong Man Scorns Such Means, And Struggles Nobly With His Foe To Achieve Great Deeds.

'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All The Air With Fragrance And With Joy.

Balder The Beautiful Is Dead, Is Dead!

The Heaven Of Poetry And Romance Still Lies Around Us And Within Us.