An End
Love, strong as death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the spring,
And died before the harvesting.
On the last warm summer day
He left us;--he would not stay
For autumn twilight cold and grey
Sit we by his grave and sing
He is gone away.
To few chords, and sad, and low,
Sing we so.
Be our eyes fixed on the grass,
Shadow-veiled, as the years pass,
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.
_Published Monthly, price 1s._
This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope
thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and
analytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Each
number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the
opening article of the month.
An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claim
for Poetry that place to which its present development in the
literature of this country so emphatically entitles it.
The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be to
encourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity of
nature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to the
comparatively few works which Art has yet produced in this spirit.
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