Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion.

Nor Bring, To See Me Cease To Live, Some Doctor Full Of Phrase And Fame, To Shake His Sapient Head, And Give The Ill He Cannot Cure A Name.

The Love Of Science, And The Energy And Honesty In The Pursuit Of Science, In The Best Of The Aryan Races Do Seem To Correspond In A Remarkable Way To The Love Of Conduct, And The Energy And Honesty In The Pursuit Of Conduct, In The Best Of The Semitic.

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The Field Strewn With Its Dank Yellow Drifts Of Wither'd Leaves, And The Elms, Fade Into Dimness Apace, Silent; Hardly A Shout From A Few Boys Late At Their Play!