In The Morn Of Life We Are

Many Love Music But For Music's Sake, Many Because Her Touches Can Awake Thoughts That Repose Within The Breast Half-dead, And Rise To Follow Where She Loves To Lead. What Various Feelings Come From Days Gone By! What Tears From Far-off Sources Dim The Eye! Few, When Light Fingers With Sweet Voices Play, And Melodies Swell, Pause, And Melt Away, Mind How At Every Touch, At Every Tone, A Spark Of Life Hath Glistened And Hath Gone.

The Sweetest Souls, Like The Sweetest Flowers, Soon Canker In Cities, And No Purity Is Rarer There Than The Purity Of Delight.

The Very Beautiful Rarely Love At All; Those Precious Images Are Placed Above The Reach Of The Passions: Time Alone Is Permitted To Efface Them.

The Damps Of Autumn Sink Into The Leaves And Prepare Them For The Necessity Of Their Fall; And Thus Insensibly Are We, As Years Close Around Us, Detached From Our Tenacity Of Life By The Gentle Pressure Of Recorded Sorrow.

Men, Like Nails, Lose Their Usefulness When They Lose Their Direction And Begin To Bend.