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Dear Poet: The above lines I dedicate to you—my guide. Did I not hope for more beautiful "worlds" to live in—for less gross organism to occupy—I should be anxious to die now;—for, indeed, the old bodies become burdensome, and as ill-fitting as outgrown crab shells.

Write to me, if you can. You may not remember me, but I am one of your oldest allies—and faithfulest.

Wm Harrison Riley.

A Chant of Love.

I sing of Love, that redeems all souls. Love is immortal. Whatsoever is devoid of Love must die. The true lovers have many disappointments. They have a long and difficult road to travel. Onward we go, forever advancing. We stumble and halt on the way, but each must fulfil his mission. We shall arrive at what now seems infinite, and find the infinite ever beyond us. We shall look back on myriads of ages and solar systems, and regard them but as a hint of the future. Onwards—leaving gross matter, and dwelling anon and anon in more etherial worlds. Onwards—until Life and Love are identical;—until all that is not needed for Love is left behind.
Townsend Centre, Mass. Wm Harrison Riley