The Philosopher's Stone

These often dark and dreary roads I walk

In valleys dampened by the morning cold

Impart a lack of love, nor beg for talk,

And makes the kind but solemn soul feel old.

In such a sour mood I ambled out

To face the gaze of sunlight in the morn,

Thus filled with vitriolic doubt

I stumbled out in clouds of the forlorn;

But then I saw her smile and her eyes,

That attitude that knows no care, no fear,

A gift of boundless vigor from the skies,

A friend of mine whom I consider dear.

She spoke but once and turned my frightful frowns

Of deadened sorrow into golden crowns.

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