What Riches Give Us Let Us Then

Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To Soul, And Waft A Sigh From Indus To The Pole.

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

For Thee I Dim These Eye And Stuff This Head With All Such Reading As Was Never Read.

Ye Flowers That Drop, Forsaken By The Spring, Ye Birds That, Left By Summer, Cease To Sing, Ye Trees That Fade, When Autumn Heats Remove, Say, Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?