Posted on April 10, 2010 at 10:30pm
" To Hahnemann, August 10, 1843"
Sleep gently wrappeth thee now
in her fold,
Thee, truth's grandest teacher, weary and old,
new light just gilds the edge of the cloud
That. born of old
night, appals like a shroud.
Disunited, thy friends halt on the
In old paths of habit, faint-hearted, stray.
whose exile shames thy own fatherland,
Thunder above them burn
their hearts where they stand
With thy fire of… Continue