A Certain Portion Of The Human Race

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

We Watch'd Her Breathing Through The Night, Her Breathing Soft And Low, As In Her Breast The Wave Of Life Kept Heaving To And Fro.

O Men With Sisters Dear, O Men With Mothers And Wives, It Is Not Linen You 're Wearing Out, But Human Creatures' Lives!

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.