The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory

The Spring Came Suddenly, Bursting Upon The World As A Child Bursts Into A Room, With A Laugh And A Shout And Hands Full Of Flowers.

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

Were A Star Quenched On High,for Ages Would Its Light,still Travelling Downward From The Sky,shine On Our Mortal Sight. So When A Great Man Dies,for Years Beyond Our Ken,the Light He Leaves Behind Him Liesupon The Paths Of Men.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Dreams Or Illusions, Call Them What You Will, They Lift Us From The Commonplace Of Life To Better Things.