An Ear For Music Is Very Different

Forth From His Dark And Lonely Hiding-place, (portentous Sight!) The Owlet Atheism, Sailing On Obscene Wings Athwart The Noon, Drops His Blue-fringed Lids, And Holds Them Close, And Hooting At The Glorious Sun In Heaven, Cries Out, ''where Is It?''

The One Red Leaf, The Last Of Its Clan, That Dances As Often As Dance It Can, Hanging So Light, And Hanging So High, On The Topmost Twig That Looks Up At The Sky.

It Is A Flat'ning Thought, That The More We Have Seen, The Less We Have To Say.

And Here Were Forests Ancient As The Hills, Enfolding Sunny Spots Of Greenery.

Happiness Can Be Built Only On Virtue, And Must Of Necessity Have Truth For Its Foundation.