I Am The Self-consumer Of

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

Throw Not My Words Away, As Many Do;they're Gold In Value, Though They're Cheap To You.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.

And Fairy Month Of Waking Mirth From Whom Our Joys Ensue Thou Early Gladder Of The Earth Thrice Welcome Here Anew With Thee The Bud Unfolds To Leaves The Grass Greens On The Lea And Flowers Their Tender Boon Receives To Bloom And Smile With Thee.

And What Is Life? - An Hour-glass On The Run