Truly, This World Can Go On Without

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

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.

A Great Sorrow, Like A Mariner's Quadrant, Brings The Sun At Noon Down To The Horizon, And We Learn Where We Are On The Sea Of Life.

Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook And River Meet, Womanhood And Childhood Fleet!