Life Like An Empty Dream

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

Gorgeous Flowerets In The Sunlight Shining, Blossoms Flaunting In The Eye Of Day, Tremulous Leaves, With Soft And Silver Lining, Buds That Open Only To Decay.

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!