Read this, world! He who writes is dead to thee, But still lives in these leaves. He spake inspired: Night and day, thought came unhelped, undesired, Like blood to his heart. The course of study he Went through was of the soul-rack. The degree He took was high: it was wise wretchedness. He suffered perfectly, and gained no less A prize than, in his own torn heart, to see A few bright seeds: he sowed them—hoped them truth. The autumn of that seed is in these pages. God was with him, and bade old Time, to the youth, Unclench his heart, and teach the book of ages. Peace to thee, world!—farewell! May God the Power, And God the Love—and God the Grace, be ours!