The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!

Death Is Never An Ending, Death Is A Change; Death Is Beautiful, For Death Is Strange; Death Is One Dream Out Of Another Flowing.

He Whose First Emotion, On The View Of An Excellent Work, Is To Undervalue Or Depreciate It, Will Never Have One Of His Own To Show.

Variations: Ii Green Light, From The Moon, Pours Over The Dark Blue Trees, Green Light From The Autumn Moon Pours On The Grass ... Green Light Falls On The Goblin Fountain Where Hesitant Lovers Meet And Pass. They Laugh In The Moonlight, Touching Hands, They Move Like Leaves On The Wind ... I Remember An Autumn Night Like This, And Not So Long Ago, When Other Lovers Were Blown Like Leaves, Before The Coming Of Snow.

As Poetry Is The Highest Speech Of Man, It Can Not Only Accept And Contain, But In The End Express Best Everything In The World, Or In Himself, That He Discovers. It Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know. This Has Always Been, And Always Will Be, Poetry's Office.

How Shall We Praise The Magnificence Of The Dead, The Great Man Humbled, The Haughty Brought To Dust?