The Creature Has A Purpose, And His

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

The Public - A Thing I Cannot Help Looking Upon As An Enemy, And Which I Cannot Address Without Feelings Of Hostility.

No Stir Of Air Was There, Not So Much Life As On A Summer's Day Robs Not One Light Seed From The Feather'd Grass, But Where The Dead Leaf Fell, There Did It Rest.