We Shall Never Learn To Feel And

Sordid Selfishness Doth Contract And Narrow Our Benevolence, And Cause Us, Like Serpents, To Infold Ourselves Within Ourselves, And To Turn Out Our Stings To The Entire World Besides.

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

Merrily, Merrily Goes The Bark On A Breeze From The Northward Free, So Shoots Through The Morning Sky The Lark, Or The Swan Through The Summer Sea.

November's Sky Is Chill And Drear, November's Leaf Is Red And Sear.

Chivalry!---why, Maiden, She Is The Nurse Of Pure And High Affection---the Stay Of The Oppressed, The Redresser Of Grievances, The Curb Of The Power Of The Tyrant ---nobility Were But An Empty Name Without Her, And Liberty Finds The Best Protection In Her Lance And Her Sword.