What Lovely Things Thy Hand

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.

When Music Sounds, Gone Is The Earth I Know, And All Her Lovelier Things Even Lovelier Grow; Her Flowers In Vision Flame, Her Forest Trees Lift Burdened Branches, Stilled With Ecstasies. When Music Sounds, Out Of The Water Rise Naiads Whose Beauty Dims My Waking Eyes, Rapt In Strange Dream Burns Each Enchanted Face, With Solemn Echoing Stirs Their Dwelling-place. When Music Sounds, All That I Was I Am Ere To This Haunt Of Brooding Dust I Came; And From Time's Woods Break Into Distant Song The Swift-winged Hours, As I Hasten Along.

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

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