Culture Is To Know The Best That

And That Sweet City With Her Dreaming Spires, She Needs Not June For Beauty's Heightening.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak?

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.

Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The Field Strewn With Its Dank Yellow Drifts Of Wither'd Leaves, And The Elms, Fade Into Dimness Apace, Silent; Hardly A Shout From A Few Boys Late At Their Play!

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men.