What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

Know Ye Not Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike The Blow? By Their Right Arms The Conquest Must Be Wrought?