This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

And The Commencement Of Atonement Is The Sense Of Its Necessity.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.