In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet
Deep truth is imageless.
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.