Oh, Constellations Of The Early Night That

Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Much Has Seen Said Of The Wisdom Of Old Age. Old Age Is Wise, I Grant, For Itself, But Not Wise For The Community. It Is Wise In Declining New Enterprises, For It Has Not The Power Nor The Time To Execute Them; Wise In Shrinking From Difficulty, For It Has Not The Strength To Overcome It; Wise In Avoiding Danger, For It Lacks The Faculty Of Ready And Swift Action, By Which Dangers Are Parried And Converted Into Advantages. But This Is Not Wisdom For Mankind At Large, By Whom New Enterprises Must Be Undertaken, Dangers Met, And Difficulties Surmounted.

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

Yet Will That Beauteous Image Make The Dreary Sea Less Drear And Thy Remembered Smile Will Wake The Hope That Tramples Fear

The Breath Of Springtime At This Twilight Hour Comes Through The Gathering Glooms, And Bears The Stolen Sweets Of Many A Flower Into My Silent Rooms.