The Eternal Not Ourselves That

What Is It To Grow Old? Is It To Lose The Glory Of The Form, The Lustre Of The Eye? Is It For Beauty To Forego Her Wreath? Yes; But Not This Alone.

Nature, With Equal Mind, Sees All Her Sons At Play, Sees Man Control The Wind, The Wind Sweep Man Away.

And Long We Try In Vain To Speak And Act Our Hidden Self, And What We Say And Do Is Eloquent, Is Well -- But 'tis Not True!

The Sea Is Calm Tonight. The Tide Is Full, The Moon Lies Fair Upon The Straits;- On The French Coast The Light Gleams And Is Gone; The Cliffs Of England Stand, Glimmering And Vast, Out In The Tranquil Bay.

Truth Illuminates And Gives Joy; And It Is By The Bond Of Joy, Not Of Pleasure, That Men's Spirits Are Indissolubly Held.