It Is True, That It Is Not

Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As The Day, Can There Be So Fair A Creature Formed Of Common Clay?

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

Whatever Hath Been Written Shall Remain, Nor Be Erased Nor Written O'er Again; The Unwritten Only Still Belongs To Thee: Take Heed, And Ponder Well What That Shall Be.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

Time, Like A Preacher In The Days Of The Puritans, Turned The Hour-glass On His High Pulpit, The Church Belfry.