Races, Better Than We, Have

All Sense Of Hearing And Of Sight Enfold In The Serene Delight And Quietude Of Sleep.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

As I Gaze Upon The Sea! All The Old Romantic Legends, All My Dreams, Come Back To Me.