There Is No Grief Like The Grief

The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is Not A Hill Crowned With Sunshine And Visited By The Muses And The Graces, But An Old, Mouldering House, Full Of Gloom And Haunted By Ghosts.

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

"do Not Fear! Heaven Is As Near," He Said, "by Water As By Land!"

Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh The Cold And Cruel Winter!