Oh, How Short Are The Days! How

Evil Is Only Good Perverted.

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

Perhaps The Greatest Lesson Which The Lives Of Literary Men Teach Us Is Told In A Single Word* Wait!

We See But Dimly Through The Mists And Vapors; Amid These Earthly Damps What Seem To Us But Sad, Funereal Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.