Where Words Cease, There Music Begins.

Graves They Say Are Warm'd By Glory; Foolish Words And Empty Story.

It Is An Ancient Story Yet Is It Ever New.

From Every Englishman Emanates A Kind Of Gas, The Deadly Choke-damp Of Boredom.

The Great Pulsation Of Nature Beats Too In My Breast, And When I Carol Aloud, I Am Answered By A Thousand-fold Echo. I Hear A Thousand Nightingales. Spring Hath Sent Them To Awaken Earth From Her Morning Slumber, And Earth Trembles With Ecstasy, Her Flowers Are Hymns, Which She Sings In Inspiration To The Sun.

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.