Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds

Therefore Trust To Thy Heart, And To What The World Calls Illusions.

Our Ingress Into The World Was Naked And Bare; Our Progress Through The World Is Trouble And Care.

Whatever Poet, Orator, Or Sage May Say Of It, Old Age Is Still Old Age.

Thou Shalt Learn The Wisdom Early To Discern True Beauty In Utility.

In The Long, Sleepless Watches Of The Night, A Gentle Face The Face Of One Long Dead Looks At Me From The Wall, Where Round Its Head The Night-lamp Casts A Halo Of Pale Light.