As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands,

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

Father Of Light! Great God Of Heaven! Hear'st Thou The Accents Of Despair? Can Guilt Like Man's Be E'er Forgiven? Can Vice Atone For Crimes By Prayer.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.