Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay.

The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!

Ye Are Better Than All The Ballads That Ever Were Sung Or Said; For Ye Are Living Poems, And All The Rest Are Dead.

No Tears Dim The Sweet Look That Nature Wears.

Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On Her Wavering Promise, Having Naught Else But Hope.