The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man

The Spirit-world Around This World Of Sense Floats Like An Atmosphere, And Everywhere Wafts Through These Earthly Mists And Vapours Dense A Vital Breath Of More Ethereal Air.

And The Night Shall Be Filled With Music, And The Cares, That Infest The Day, Shall Fold Their Tents Like The Arabs, And Silently Steal Away.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection - Affection Never Was Wasted.

Time Has Laid His Hand Upon My Heart, Gently, Not Smiting It, But As A Harper Lays His Open Palm Upon His Harp, To Deaden Its Vibrations.

Something The Heart Must Have To Cherish, Must Love And Joy And Sorrow Learn; Something With Passion Clasp, Or Perish And In Itself To Ashes Burn.