What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? /

Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

Tis Like The Birthday Of The World, When Earth Was Born In Bloom; The Light Is Made Of Many Dyes, The Air Is All Perfume: There's Crimson Buds, And White And Blue, The Very Rainbow Showers Have Turned To Blossoms Where They Fell, And Sown The Earth With Flowers.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

How Bless'd The Heart That Has A Friend. A Sympathizing Ear To Lend.