The Mortal Sickness Of A

Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying, What Tune The Enchantress Plays In Aftermaths Of Soft September Or Under Blanching Mays, For She And I Were Long Acquainted And I Knew All Her Ways.

And Silence Sounds No Worse Than Cheers After Earth Has Stopped The Ears.

'tis Spring; Come Out To Ramble The Hilly Brakes Around, For Under Thorn And Bramble About The Hollow Ground The Primroses Are Found. And There's The Windflower Chilly With All The Winds At Play, And There's The Lenten Lily That Has Not Long To Stay And Dies On Easter Day.

Good Religious Poetry... Is Likely To Be Most Justly Appreciated And Most Discriminately Relished By The Undevout.

His Folly Has Not Fellow Beneath The Blue Of Day That Gives To Man Or Woman His Heart And Soul Away.