This Manner Of Writing Wherein Knowing Myself

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

Our State Cannot Be Severed, We Are One, One Flesh; To Lose Thee Were To Lose Myself.

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.

Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of The Sun , Whose Charmed Cup Whoever Tasted, Lost His Upright Shape, And Downward Fell Into A Groveling Swine?

For The Air Of Youth, Hopeful And Cheerful, In Thy Blood Will Reign A Melancholy Damp Of Cold And Dry To Weigh Thy Spirits Down, And Last Consume The Balm Of Life.