No One Is So Accursed By Fate,

All Are Architects Of Fate, Working In These Walls Of Time; Some With Massive Deeds And Great, Some With Ornaments Of Rhyme.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

The Lamps Are Lit, The Fires Burn Bright. The House Is Full Of Life And Light.

Only A Look And A Voice; Then Darkness Again And Silence.

The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their Beads In Drops Of Rain.