The True Poet Is A

Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient, And Simple, And Childlike.

Oh, How Beautiful Is The Summer Night, Which Is Not Night, But A Sunless, Yet Unclouded, Day, Descending Upon Earth With Dews And Shadows And Refreshing Coolness! How Beautiful The Long Mild Twilight, Which, Like A Silver Clasp, Unites Today With Yesterday!

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

The Pleasant Books, That Silently Among Our Household Treasures Take Familiar Places, And Are To Us As If A Living Tongue Spake From The Printed Leaves Or Pictured Faces!

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.