How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How

Work Is Its Own Best Earthly Meed, Else Have We None More Than The Sea-born Throng Who Wrought Those Marvellous Isles That Bloom Afar.

How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against The Reach Of Primrose Sky With Heaven's Pale Candles Stored.

Reign, And Keep Life In This Our Deep Desireour Only Greatness Is That We Aspire.

Quoth The Ocean, "dawn! O Fairest, Clearest, Touch Me With Thy Golden Fingers Bland; For I Have No Smile Till Thou Appearest For The Lovely Land.

What Is Thy Thought? There Is No Miracle? There Is A Great One, Which Thou Hast Not Read, And Never Shalt Escape. Thyself, O Man, Thou Art The Miracle. Ay, Thou Thyself, Being In The World And Of The World, Thyself, Hast Breathed In Breath From Him That Made The World. Thou Art Thy Father's Copy Of Himself,-- Thou Art Thy Father's Miracle.