The Present Is The Funeral Of The

To-morrow Comes, True Copy Of To-day,and Empty Shadow Of What Is To Be;yet Cheated Hope On Future Still Depends,and Ends But Only When Our Being Ends.

Tasteful Illumination Of The Night, Bright Scattered, Twinkling Star Of Spangled Earth.

I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.

The Thorn Tree Just Began To Bud And Greening Stained The Sheltering Hedge, An Many A Violet Beside The Wood Peeped Blue Between The Withered Sedge; The Sun Gleamed Warm The Bank Beside, 'twas Pleasant Wandering Out A While Neath Nestling Bush To Lonely Hide, Or Bend A Musings O'er A Stile.

Wildness Is My Suiting Scene.