Take This Sorrow To Thy Heart And

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Our Blossoms Of Passion, Gay And Luxuriant Flowers, Are Bright And Full Of Fragrance, But They Beguile Us And Lead Us Astray, And Their Odor Is Deadly.

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.

An Angel Visited The Green Earth, And Took A Flower Away.

There Is A Reaper, Whose Name Is Death, And, With His Sickle Keen, He Reaps The Bearded Grain At A Breath, And The Flowers That Grow Between.