Where No Hope Is Left, Is Left

And To The Faithful: Death, The Gate Of Life.

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

Thus With The Year Seasons Return, But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Ev'n Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom, Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine.

Such Bickerings To Recount, Met Often In These Our Writers, What More Worth Is It Than To Chronicle The Wars Of Kites Or Crows Flocking And Fighting In The Air?

The Winds With Wonder Whist, Smoothly The Waters Kisst.