The Heaven Of Poetry And Romance Still

The Morning Breaks; The Steeds In Their Stalls Stamp And Neigh, As The Hostler Calls; The Day Returns, But Nevermore Returns The Traveler To The Shore, And The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

Not Chance Of Birth Or Place Has Made Us Friends, Being Oftentimes Of Different Tongues And Nations, But The Endeavor For The Selfsame Ends, With The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Aspirations.

The Lowest Ebb Is The Turn Of The Tide.

The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.