Ah! What Would The World

People Of A Lively Imagination Are Generally Curious, And Always So When A Little In Love.

I Hear The Wind Among The Trees Playing The Celestial Symphonies; I See The Branches Downward Bent, Like Keys Of Some Great Instrument.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

Among The Noblest In The Land - Though Man May Count Himself The Least - That Man I Honor And Revere, Who Without Favor, Without Fear, In The Great City Dares To Stand, The Friend Of Every Friendless Beast.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.