The Young May Die, But The Old

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

Oh, How Short Are The Days! How Soon The Night Overtakes Us!

I Do Not Love Thee Less For What Is Done, And Cannot Be Undone. Thy Very Weakness Hath Brought Thee Nearer To Me, And Henceforth My Love Will Have A Sense Of Pity In It, Making It Less A Worship Than Before.