A Poem Round And Perfect As A

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

I Go Into My Library, And All History Unrolls Before Me. I Breathe The Morning Air Of The World While The Scent Of Eden's Roses Yet Lingered In It, While It Vibrated Only To The World's First Brood Of Nightingales, And To The Laugh Of Eve. I See The Pyramids Building; I Hear The Shoutings Of The Armies Of Alexander.

The Sun Was Down, And All The West Was Paved With Sullen Fire. I Cried, Behold! The Barren Beach Of Hell At Ebb Of Tide.

God Has Thickly Strewn Infinity With Grandeur.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.