God Hath Yoked To Guilt

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.

On Rolls The Stream With A Perpetual Sigh; The Rocks Moan Wildly As It Passes By; Hyssop And Wormwood Border All The Strand, And Not A Flower Adorns The Dreary Land.