His Are The Quiet Steeps

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The Night In Her Silver Shoon.