I Lost The Love Of

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.

Into The Nothingness Of Scorn And Noise, Into The Living Sea Of Waking Dreams, Where There Is Neither Sense Of Life Or Joys, But The Vast Shipwreck Of My Life's Esteems; And E'en The Dearest--that I Love The Best-- Are Strange--nay, Rather Stranger Than The Rest.

Yet Simple Souls, Their Faith It Knows No Stint: Things Least To Be Believed Are Most Preferred. All Counterfeits, As From Truth's Sacred Mint, Are Readily Believed If Once Put Down In Print

To-morrow Comes, True Copy Of To-day,and Empty Shadow Of What Is To Be;yet Cheated Hope On Future Still Depends,and Ends But Only When Our Being Ends.