Richard Henry Dana, Sr.

“ And altered to the Living Mind
(That great high-priestess, with her thought-born race
Who round thine altar aye have stood and shine)
The comforts of thy face.
Why shadowed thus thy forehead fair?
Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom,
And spreads away on the genial air,
Like vapours from the tomb?
Why should ye shine, you lights above?
Ye little flowers, why open to the heat?
No more within the heart ye filled with love
The living pulses bat. ”