Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.

Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.