It Is A Beautiful Trait In The

Burn, O Evening Hearth, And Waken Pleasant Visions, As Of Old! Though The House By Winds Be Shaken, Safe I Keep This Room Of Gold!

How Absolute And Omnipotent Is The Silence Of Night! And Yet The Stillness Seems Almost Audible! From All The Measureless Depths Of Air Around Us Comes A Half-sound, A Half-whisper, As If We Could Hear The Crumbling And Falling Away Of Earth And All Created Things, In The Great Miracle Of Nature, Decay And Reproduction, Ever Beginning, Never Ending,--the Gradual Lapse And Running Of The Sand In The Great Hour-glass Of Time.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary. My Life Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; My Thoughts Still Cling To The Mouldering Past, But The Hopes Of Youth Fall Thick In The Blast, And The Days Are Dark And Dreary. Be Still, Sad Heart! And Cease Repining; Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining; Thy Fate Is The Common Fate Of All, Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall, Some Days Must Be Dark And Dreary.

Even Cities Have Their Graves!