The Red Sahara In An

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

Quoth The Ocean, "dawn! O Fairest, Clearest, Touch Me With Thy Golden Fingers Bland; For I Have No Smile Till Thou Appearest For The Lovely Land.

How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How Long The Sorrowful!

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

I Am Athirst For God, The Living God.