Unknown

Now, my sere fancy "falls into the yellow
Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion;
And the sad read more

Now, my sere fancy "falls into the yellow
Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion;
And the sad truth, which hovers o'er my desk,
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

Slowly and imperceptibly old age comes creeping on.

Slowly and imperceptibly old age comes creeping on.

I would not want to be the one to tell parents of the last
man to die in a war read more

I would not want to be the one to tell parents of the last
man to die in a war termed a mistake that he was dead.

There are many things which may not be uttered by men in
threadbare coats.

There are many things which may not be uttered by men in
threadbare coats.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.