And At My Silent Window-sill

Winning Isn't Everything, But It Beats Anything In Second Place.

I Gazed Upon The Glorious Sky And The Green Mountains Round, And Thought That When I Came To Lie At Rest Within The Ground, 'twere Pleasant, That In Flowery June When Brooks Send Up A Cheerful Tune, And Groves A Joyous Sound, The Sexton's Hand, My Grave To Make, The Rich, Green Mountain-turf Should Break.

The Moon Is At Her Full, And Riding High, Floods The Calm Fields With Light. The Airs That Hover In The Summer Sky Are All Asleep To-night.

All Things That Are On Earth Shall Wholly Pass Away, Except The Love Of God, Which Shall Live And Last For Aye.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.