Were Half The Power That Fills The

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

Gorgeous Flowerets In The Sunlight Shining, Blossoms Flaunting In The Eye Of Day, Tremulous Leaves, With Soft And Silver Lining, Buds That Open Only To Decay.

Where Should The Scholar Live? In Solitude, Or In Society? In The Green Stillness Of The Country, Where He Can Hear The Heart Of Nature Beat, Or In The Dark, Gray Town Where He Can Hear And Feel The Throbbing Heart Of Man?

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

The Spirit-world Around This World Of Sense Floats Like An Atmosphere, And Everywhere Wafts Through These Earthly Mists And Vapours Dense A Vital Breath Of More Ethereal Air.