To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

Biochemically, Love Is Just Like Eating Large Amounts Of Chocolate.

With A Smile That Glow'd Celestial Rosy Red, Love's Proper Hue.