I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.

While Snow The Window-panes Bedim, The Fire Curls Up A Sunny Charm, Where, Creaming O'er The Pitcher's Rim, The Flowering Ale Is Set To Warm; Mirth, Full Of Joy As Summer Bees, Sits There, Its Pleasures To Impart, And Children, 'tween Their Parent's Knees, Sing Scraps Of Carols O'er By Heart.

This World Has Suns, But They Are Overcast;this World Has Sweets, But They're Of Ling'ring Bloom;life Still Expects, And Empty Falls At Last;warm Hope On Tiptoe Drops Into The Tomb.

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

How Oft A Summer Shower Has Started Me; To Seek The Shelter Of A Hollow Tree