The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where We Tremble And Crouch And Cry.

No Verse Which Is Unmusical Or Obscure Can Be Regarded As Poetry Whatever Other Qualities It May Possess.

Tears Are Summer Showers To The Soul.

Where Has Thou Been All The Dumb Winter Days When Neither Sunlight Was Nor Smile Of Flowers, Neither Life, Nor Love, Nor Frolic, Only Expanse Melancholic, With Never A Note Of Thy Exhilarating Lays?

Alfred Austin Said, "show Me Your Garden And I Shall Tell You What You Are."