Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold

And Looks Commercing With The Skies, Thy Rapt Soul Sitting In Thine Eyes.

Hard Are The Ways Of Truth, And Rough To Walk.

How Sweetly Did They Float Upon The Wings Of Silence Through The Empty-vaulted Night, At Every Fall Smoothing The Raven Down Of Darkness Till It Smiled!

Now Came Still Evening On; And Twilight Gray Had In Her Sober Livery All Things Clad: Silence Accompanied; For Beast And Bird, They To They Grassy Couch, These To Their Nests, Were Slunk, All But The Wakeful Nightingale.

Eloquence The Soul, Song Charms The Senses.