And We Wept That One So Lovely

Look On This Beautiful World, And Read The Truth In Her Fair Page.

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.