Poetry Is The Morning Dream

Kindness Is Virtue Itself.

Poets And Heroes Are Of The Same Race, The Latter Do What The Former Conceive.

Man, It Seems, Is Not Able To Bear The Languid Rest On Nature's Bosom, And When The Trumpet Sounds The Signal Of Danger, He Hastens To Join His Comrades, No Matter What The Cause That Calls Him To Arms. He Rushes Into The Thickest Of The Fight, And Amid The Uproar Of The Battle Regains Confidence In Himself And His Powers.

Hence Life, As Through A Cloud, For Me I See Vanish, And To The Past's Dark Shade 'tis Chas'd; As A Grand Image Love Remains To Me-- Sole Remnant Of A Dream, By Morn Effac'd.

The Death Of A Man's Wife Is Like Cutting Down An Ancient Oak That Has Long Shaded The Family Mansion. Henceforth The Glare Of The World, With Its Cares And Vicissitudes Falls Upon The Old Widower's Heart, And There Is Nothing To Break Their Force, Or Shield Him From The Full Weight Of Misfortune. It Is As If His Right Hand Were Withered; As If One Wing Of His Angel Was Broken, And Every Movement That He Made Brought Him To The Ground.