Joy, Once Lost, Is Pain

A Lovely Lady, Garmented In Light From Her Own Beauty.

His Fine Wit Makes Such A Wound, The Knife Is Lost In It.

Thou Hast A Voice, Great Mountain, To Repeal. Large Codes Of Fraud And Woe; Not Understood By All, But Which The Wise, And Great, And Good Interpret, Or Make Felt, Or Deeply Feel.

Where Art Thou, Beloved To-morrow? When Young And Old, And Strong And Weak, Rich And Poor, Through Joy And Sorrow, Thy Sweet Smiles We Ever Seek,-- In Thy Place--ah! Well-a-day! We Find The Thing We Fled--to-day!

Nothing Wilts Faster Than Laurels That Have Been Rested Upon.