He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not

From Sunny Woof And Cloudy Weft Fell Rain In Sheets; So, To Myself I Hummed These Hazard Rhymes, And Left The Learned Volume On The Shelf.

Tears Are Summer Showers To The Soul.

No One Can Rightly Call His Garden His Own Unless He Himself Made It.

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

Thought, Stumbling, Plods Past Fallen Temples, Vanished Gods, Altars Unincensed, Fanes Undecked, Eternal Systems Flown Or Wrecked; Through Trackless Centuries That Grant To The Poor Trudge Refreshment Scant, Age After Age, Pants On To Find A Melting Mirage Of The Mind.