The Story, From Beginning To End, I

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger.

From Dust Thou Art To Dust Returneth, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.