Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.
Henry AbbeyThough Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.
Henry AbbeyAnd once I knew a meditative rose That never raised its head from bowing down, Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. It bloomed and faded here beside the road, And, being a poet, wrote on empty air With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.
Henry AbbeyBehold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today, As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay!
Henry Abbey