Edward Booth Loughran Biography

When these dead leaves were green, love,
   November's skies were blue,
And summer came with lips aflame,
   The gentle spring to woo;
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The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime
Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar
Still struggle with the antiquary's lore,
To guard the secrets of a by-gone time,
...

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul
   In its own orbit circles ever;
Myriads may by or round it roll --
   The ways may meet, but mingle never.
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