The Eternal Not Ourselves That Makes For

Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are Bald, With A Baldness Full Of Grandeur.

Where Great Whales Come Sailing By, Sail And Sail, With Unshut Eye, Round The World For Ever And Aye.

Truth Illuminates And Gives Joy; And It Is By The Bond Of Joy, Not Of Pleasure, That Men's Spirits Are Indissolubly Held.

Only--but This Is Rare-- When A Beloved Hand Is Laid In Ours, When, Jaded With The Rush And Glare Of The Interminable Hours, Our Eyes Can In Another's Eyes Read Clear, When Our World-deafen'd Ear Is By The Tones Of A Loved Voice Caress'd-- A Bolt Is Shot Back Somewhere In Our Breast, And A Lost Pulse Of Feeling Stirs Again. The Eye Sinks Inward, And The Heart Lies Plain, And What We Mean, We Say, And What We Would, We Know. A Man Becomes Aware Of His Life's Flow, And Hears Its Winding Murmur; And He Sees The Meadows Where It Glides, The Sun, The Breeze.

Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.